


The measure of the year (the mind of men)

by geckoplasm



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Diverges at GPF, Domestic, Drama, Happy Ending, Long-Distance Relationship, Love, M/M, Miscommunication, Post Grand Prix Final, Post-Series, Romance, Written pre episode 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 03:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoplasm/pseuds/geckoplasm
Summary: Victor is selfish and unobservant. Yuuri is petty and passive-aggressive. They’re still in love.





	1. Winter

**Author's Note:**

> _Four seasons fill the measure of the year;_  
>  _There are four seasons in the mind of men._  
>  \- John Keats

He wins in the winter. He _wins._

It’s a strange, bubbling in his stomach when he gets up on the podium. He’s proud of himself, he realizes. It’s unfamiliar. There’s always been someone better before. There’s always been Victor on this podium.

Victor is standing in front of him, at the edge of the crowd and the media. Does he miss standing here, he wonders. Does he wish it were him? Worries crowd in his head, an over-filled elevator rising up; does he regret the past year?

He looks, really looks at Victor. He’s smiling, so wide it can’t possibly be false, and he’s jumping. He’s _gleeful._ Like a kid at the beach on the first day of summer. And suddenly Yuuri’s smiling too. Like someone has pressed play, his face springs to life, and he’s crying. He reaches up a hand to wave to Victor. It’s shaking. He’s shaking.

God, what even happened? He just _won_. He’s the first person other than Victor Nikiforov to stand at the top of this podium in five years.

 

The judges called his performance flawless. He had shaken his head when he’d heard that, sat in the kiss and cry box with Victor, in front of all of the cameras. Victor had nodded vigorously, which was just ridiculous. No-one who had seen Victor skate could possibly believe anyone else could be flawless. That title was reserved.

Besides, a truly flawless thing couldn’t exist. An ideal was just an idea. Something could always be improved. That’s what Victor had always shown the audience. Every year you could get better. Perfect was only ever temporary.

“Yuuri,” Victor had murmured in his eat at that point, interrupting his musing, “Smile for the cameras. Just a little longer.”

Victor tapped his fingers against his back.

Then he slammed into him so hard in a hug that they both tumbled off the stool. 337.43. His score. He’d never dreamed of scoring so high. He could barely believe it. Mouthed it to himself in shock, in front of the flashing cameras. 337.43.

Victor was screaming in his ear – so loud, so excited. Shaking his hands. Yuuri could hardly feel it. Could barely hear anything past the rushing in his head. He _won_.

 

Victor has to help him down from the podium, holding his shaking hands.

The interviews pass in a blue. It feels like both a second and a year before he’s done and in the cab back to the hotel with Victor. Victor who is stroking his hair, apparently bored of massaging his heads.

“So Yuuri, how do you feel? Now that you’ve shown the world the power of your love?” Yuuri scowls to himself when he realizes he doesn’t have the energy to shove his hand into that smirking face. Gosh, he’s so tired. Victor laughs. It’s a nice laugh, light and soft. Like his hair. 

“Ah I see. Too good to answer your coach now.” Victor’s words tease, but his hands stay soft in Yuuri’s hair. It’s nice. He’s nice.

 

He wakes when the cab pulls to a stop with a jerk. They’re at the hotel. His neck hurts and he can barely contain a whine. Before he can figure out how to coordinate his limbs however, Victor pulls him out of the car, arms secure around his back.

“How are you so sleepy, Yuuri?” Victor sounds honestly confused. What a silly question. How could anyone not be tired? His body has been hardened and trained. He just performed two complex and physically strenuous routines. His head hurts from all of the camera flashes and questions screamed in his face. He just achieved his lifelong dream. He put everything into this – he’s got nothing left to give.

“Been working hard,” He finally murmurs, eyes slipping shut again. He thinks he can hear Victor click his tongue, and pull out his phone to start texting, but he quickly stops following the noises. The bed is too soft.

 

Life as a Grand Prix winner is delightful.

His parents, and friends had been over the moon, screaming and hugging him ceaselessly for the first week after he’d come home. Minako had popped a bottle of champagne and Yuuko had burst into tears. Random people in the streets of Hasetsu stopped for his autograph, which never stopped amusing Victor.

But for all of that, it’s the quiet moments with Victor that Yuuri cherishes the most. They skate together now for fun, but no more often than they walk Makkachin on the beach. Victor finally lets Yuuri eat katsudon. It’s good. But nowhere near as good as seeing the pride on Victor’s face.

 

Yuuri’s family don’t celebrate Christmas, but he gives Victor a gift. Victor hadn’t mentioned anything, but he knows it’s his birthday. It’s just some tea leaves, but Victor looks delighted. He makes a pot straight away. He laughs halfway through. At what, Yuuri doesn’t know – maybe at how good the tea is – and snorts it from his nose. It should be disgusting, but Yuuri’s preoccupied by how much pain Victor seems to be in. He never does explain what caused it. Maybe it just doesn’t translate. 

 

Victor touches him more in public now. He hadn’t thought it was possible. But before where there had been only frequent hugs, now it seems they are constantly in contact. It makes him feel warm inside. Victor holds his hand when they walk, taps his fingers on Yuuri’s leg or plays with his hair when they sit. Victor leans against him in the car, at dinner, when they watch movies. They go on dates now too. It’s fun. Some are romantic, some are silly, the first was awkward – Yuuri cringes whenever he thinks about it. Which is often.

 

“Yuuri,” Victor had interrupted his morning stretch routine, his voice sounding oddly serious.

“Yes?” What a serious face, Yuuri noticed with some concern, “Is everything alright? You’re not usually up this early!”

“Yes! I want – or, I would like – or, it would be _nice_ – more than nice! If, um,” Yuuri had watched with fascination as Victor had flushed. Victor so rarely got so worked up. He blushed sometimes, went red with exertion like anyone (though, nowhere near as bad as Yuuri did) but he had never before stuttered like this.

Yuuri allowed himself to get distracted for at least a minute, preferring to focus on the way Victor’s hands were flexing and grasping at fists by his sides, before finally interrupting,

“Victor, what’s going on?”

Victor heaved a sigh, such a heavy sound. It made Yuuri nervous to hear it, and that was all it had taken for his thoughts to spiral out of control. Was Victor leaving? Was he finally bored? Was the celebrating period over? What he going to –

“Would you like to go out with me?”

\- end it?

Yuuri’s thoughts skidded to a halt, threw him over the handlebars, he’d completely lost the thread of the conversation. Laughed awkwardly.

“Out with you? Like, date you?”

“Yes!” Victor’s smile lit up his face, so sunshine bright Yuuri could barely look at him, couldn’t bear to look away, “Date! I had forgotten the English word. Will you date me?”

Victor snapped his fingers and pointed at Yuuri. So dramatic.

“Aren’t we already dating?” Yuuri had finally managed to get out, feeling like he was being strangled. Although whether it was around his throat or his heart, he honestly wasn’t sure.

“Yes?” Victor cocked his head, looking confused.

“So why are you asking me to date you?” Victor blinked, then opened eyes wide.

“Go _on_ a date with me! Ah, I was never any good at those compound verbs in school. Will you go _on_ a date with me? We haven’t yet gone on one properly!”

“Oh. Yes. A date. Sounds good. Tonight?” The blinding grin was back.

“Yay! I can start to woo you properly!”

“You met me naked. What wooing is left to do?”

“You wound me Yuuri! First with your blank gaze when I ask you to dinner, now with your scandalous teasing.” Victor had flounced out of the room, leaving Yuuri with his speeding heart, and relief.

 

Dinner was at seven. Victor had told Yuuri to get changed into “fancy!” twice. So Yuuri had ended up in his most expensive shirt, and a suit outside of the nicest restaurant in the town, with a fidgeting Victor.

“I’m so excited! I’ve wanted to take you here for months!”

But dinner was a _disaster._ Yuuri’s shirt had itched so much Victor had asked if there were fleas. The waiter had overheard, laughed and accidentally poured half a bottle of wine on Victor’s shirt. Worst of all were the awkward silences. Yuuri had found himself with nothing to say, despite the fact that they managed to fill the days for the past year just fine. Maybe they needed skating after all. Yuuri wasn’t a very interesting person even with figure skating, his personality outside of it left a lot to be desired. He was so nervous he ordered a meal he hated, but luckily could barely taste. Victor kept frowning, and looked so disappointed in the taxi back to the resort. It made Yuuri’s insides twist.

He had unlocked the door in silence. When they were both safely in his room he turned to Victor, head bowed, and apologised. Victor’s head had jerked up at that point, astonishment evident. He had waved his hands, holding them out to Yuuri.

“No, Yuuri! _I’m_ sorry.”

“You were so excited, and I ruined it,” Yuuri had murmured.

“I was excited to spend an evening dedicated to you,” Victor had said, arms still out in front of him, “This was just the only way I knew how to do it. I should have known something more casual would suit you better, like ramen,” Yuuri had curled even more into himself at that point, “Suit _us_ better.” Victor had looked so distressingly sincere that Yuuri had dived in for the invited hug.

 

The evening had ended well. So yes, Yuuri thinks about it often. It doesn’t stop him cringing at how much he must have embarrassed Victor.

 

Thankfully their other dates have gone much better. The second time they try Thai, and Victor almost cries from how spicy it is. Yuuri actually does. The third time they have a squid-bonanza from the morning markets. Even if Victor has been bored, he never looks it. He smiles at Yuuri like he always has: like he’s proud and happy, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

Yuuri should like it. He _does._ But it also makes him nervous.

Soon enough, their dates go back to ‘normal’: just the two of them spending time together, hanging out. Yuuri’s favourite is when they watch the sunset together, holding hands on the pier. It’s freezing, but they don’t mind. Victor’s hair and eyes seem to shimmer in the crepuscular light. He always looks so beautiful. Yuuri wishes he could work up the courage to tell him that.

 

He barely notices time passing at all. Instead it feels like every day is a unique gift – a holiday, yes, but not just from skating. From reality too. The way everything looks brighter, shiner in the winter light adds to the illusion. It’s almost like a dream: everything is at once familiar – the town, the pier, the rink, and unfamiliar – the walks, the hand-holding, the duet dances.

It makes him unsteady on his feet sometimes. He can never quite shake the feeling that the ground beneath his feet will give way. But he’s determined to enjoy it. After all, he wants it, he’s wanted it for so long. Besides, he reasons to himself in the morning, as he studies Victor’s face, he fought for everyone to hate him for stealing Victor away. If Victor’s happy to be stolen, he will cherish it.

 

Funnily enough, it’s Yuuko that breaks the reverie. Neither Victor not his parents, but his dearest friend.

They’re out to dinner, the four of them: Yuuko, Takeshi, Victor and himself. It’s an infrequent occasion, to see Yuuko and Takeshi without their girls. Victor’s on fire tonight, laughing and joking. His Japanese is getting better, and Yuuri can tell Yuuko and Takeshi have been putting in some effort to their English as well. He’s grateful. It lets him watch, and pay attention rather than hurry to interpret all the time. He’s able to notice, for example, how Victor purses his lips and drums his fingers on his knees under the table when he can’t remember how to say a word in either English or Japanese. There’s a hilarious moment when Victor visibly gives up and uses the phrase “car ball” when telling a story about the first time he had to change a tyre. It’s almost as funny as the image of Victor Nikiforov, 18 years old and shitfaced, stuck on the side of the road in yesterday’s clothes.

“I thought I was going to die. I was late for a training session with Yakov, and I was – how do you say it – pissed. Very drunk.”

“Did you call it a ‘car ball’ when you asked for help then?” Yuuko asks, chortling.

“You know, I don’t recall. Maybe I did.”

And Yuuri can count the number of times Victor goes to refill his sake and then stops himself. Or how he always uses the chopsticks to poke at the food he doesn’t recognize, with such an expression of concentration, as if he fears it will bite back. Yuuko notices him watching Victor, and he flushes, glances away. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her smile and squeeze Takeshi’s hand.

“So Victor, how did it feel to watch Yuuri win the Grand Prix?” Victor turns to look at Yuuri, who shivers. Victor’s gaze is intense. Yuuri feels pinned to the spot, burning under the spotlight for just a second, before the moment breaks and Victor turns back to Yuuko.

“Brilliant, of course. I knew Yuuri had the ability, but actually see it was beautiful.”

“Did it surprise you?” Yuuri looks away, willing Yuuko to stop these questions. Victor’s gaze is heavy on the side of his face again. There’s a lengthy silence. Victor seems to be considering his answer.

“Yes, but not that I thought he couldn’t do the routine. Rather,” Victor seems to roll the words around in this mouth, checking if they’ll sound right, “I wasn’t sure Yuuri would have the confidence to let himself _feel_ the routine.”

Across the table, Yuuko splutters, “But he showed us at every stage that he could put his feelings into each performance! How can you have such little faith?”

She bangs his fist on the table, upending the sake bottle. Victor catches it smoothly, and moves it out of her reach.

“Of course Yuuri has shown us he can put feeling into a routine. He has a particular gift for it actually,” Yuuri’s cheeks feel warm. He takes a large gulp of sake to try to cover it. From Victor’s small smile, he didn’t succeed, “I meant more, whether Yuuri would show his own feelings. The routines were always about vulnerability. We saw Yuuri as katsudon, as a woman, as a thief of sorts. He didn’t see Yuuri as Yuuri: an uncertain young man. His theme was love, yes? Love can be desire, or lust – eros, maybe, but it can greedy too,” Victor’s not looking at any of them now, “But isn’t love scary most of the time? The possibility of joy, the fear of loss.”

They’re all staring at Victor now. Yuuri’s never heard him sound so serious. Yuuko and Takeshi have probably never heard him sound anything but blasé.

Quickly though, Victor snaps out of whatever mood he’s in, and laughs – a little self-deprecating snort.

“Ah, sorry sorry! Too serious for such a fun night out. You inspired such musing in me, Yuuri – with your final performance,” Victor’s eyes seem to hold a promise. It’s one that Yuuri hopes Yuuko and Takeshi don’t recognize, but given that they have children, it’s probably too much to hope for.

Then, Victor claps his hands. Just like that, the mood jolts back into festive.

 

Later, when they’re in bed, Victor curled around Yuuri, legs tangled, Yuuri asks him,

“Did you mean that? What you said earlier tonight,” Victor hums questioningly, fingers tracing over Yuuri’s, “That you were surprised to see my honest emotions?”

He’s a little hurt, he’s realized after some thought. He really had shown so much of himself to Victor. He’s never cried so much in front of someone before. He skated his love each time.

“You’re a hard person to know, Yuuri. I knew you – ” Victor pauses, draws a deep breath, grabs Yuuri’s hand and slots their fingers together, “You so rarely show me what you’re feeling. At the Cup of China, you were suddenly different before your performance. You told me to keep my eyes on you – I didn’t understand why until much later. So much happens up in your head, but you don’t always share it. Then on the ice, you show us the end result of whatever you’ve been pondering. Your performances are exquisite, I’ve known that since the start, since you performed mine.”

“You don’t – ” But Yuuri doesn’t know where he’s going with the interruption. Still, Victor waits for him patiently, until it’s clear he won’t say anything else.

“Like now, for example. I don’t really know if you want me here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you enjoy our dates? Because it’s hard for me to tell. As soon as I hold your hand you seem to freeze. Are you nervous? I thought maybe you didn’t like it but you tighten your grip if I try to pull away. You hardly talk at our dinners. You’ll make a man think he’s bad company, Yuuri.” Victor’s voice sounds teasing, but Yuuri feels cold. Maybe he’s misjudged. He desperately fishes for some of his courage,

“I’m just nervous, I guess.”

“About what Yuuri? I can’t help if you don’t tell me.” Victor’s voice is deep and soft, velveteen behind his ear. And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? But how to vocalise the twisting, squirming fear inside of him? Why did you come, and do you regret it? And when you leave will you forgive me for my selfishness?

“I guess I can’t believe you’re here with me,” is what he finally gets out. It’s not false, but it’s nowhere near complete.

Victor is silent for a long moment, long enough that Yuuri’s hearing adjusts and he can hear the clock tick faintly, long enough that he starts to worry that he’s said too much.

“You know, Yuuri, I really liked seeing you skate your love story with the ice in your free skate,” is what Victor finally says as he resumes stroking Yuuri’s side. It makes him feel brave,

“It wasn’t just my love of skating Victor,” Does he know this? Yuuri thinks despairingly. He rolls over, suddenly very sure that he has to say this, “I can’t differentiate between skating and you. It was a love story for you.” He hasn’t spoken so bolding for a long time, maybe not since that interview when he declared his theme.

“I’m glad to hear that Yuuri. I felt like I fell more in love with you each time I watched it.” Victor’s hands are stroking more firmly now, his lips on Yuuri’s ear. It makes him shiver. He can feel Victor smile, and let’s himself be pulled closer.

 

The equinox passes and the days start to grow shorter. It happens so slowly that Yuuri hardly notices until one day their walk along the pier at seven takes place almost entirely in the light. Soon enough, new leaves start to appear, and Victor swaps out his heavy coats for lighter sweaters. It distracts Yuuri. Victor looks like an ice price, winter royalty, at least until he opens his mouth. The deep red sweater is his favourite. He pulls it on once, just to see if it feels as soft on the inside as it does from the outside. It does, although Victor doesn’t let him keep it on for very long – a reaction Yuuri makes sure to remember.

 

They still go to the rink most days. Yuuko leaves it open just for them a few hours each evening. One day though, Victor asks if they can go in the morning.

“I had a dream,” he explains, looking excited, “I have to try to make it a reality.”

Yuuri’s too groggy in the mornings to try to figure out what’s going on in Victor’s head. Why does this man always seem to burst awake, like a sunflower, when the sun rises? He grumbles in his mind, as he puts on his shirt for the second time, the right way around this time. Victor’s already dressed. Yuuri waves him off, and he spins around, a sloppy pirouette, and runs down the hall. Yuuri breathes a sigh of relief, and goes to brush his teeth. If he’s not careful, Victor can give him a headache in the morning. Like a full day out in the sun without water, prolonged and unprepared exposure to Victor is enough to give anyone heatstroke.

  
By the time he gets to the rink, it’s been 45 minutes. He’s brought breakfast for them both. Victor will need it if he’s been skating all this time.

Yuuko grabs his arm before he can get to the rink though.

“It’s beautiful, Yuuri,” She gushes, to his confusion, “The new routine.”

‘It’s beautiful’ never seems enough to describe Victor. Victor has been beautiful since he was a teenager and burst onto the Junior World scene. Yuuri’s well aware that his obsession with Victor was embarrassing, but it’s always seemed justified. With each routine Victor evolved, grew even more polished, but never lost that sparkling beauty of a rare gem.

This new routine is no exception.  It’s fluid; Victor seems to float on the ice. It looks deceptively easy. No individual component is exceptionally difficult, Yuuri notes. Rather, it seems to be a compact routine that relies on flexibility. It would be exhausting to perform. It’s so different from anything he’s seen from Victor before. It looks like ballet.

It’s a routine of yearning, Yuuri suddenly realizes. Victor’s arms pull in and out, trying to reel something in, and failing – never quite connecting. It always gets free, whatever he’s chasing, leaving Victor to chase after it again.

He’s clapping before he thinks about it, catches himself off-guard. Victor always brings out his emotions like nothing, or no-one else. Victor pulls to a stop, chest heaving. His head snaps up searching for the source of the sudden noise.

Victor’s telling him about the routine, but he’s not listening. He’s just seeing it again in his mind.

“It’s beautiful, Victor.” He’s probably interrupted him, but it also probably doesn’t matter. Victor talks a lot.

“Not yet, but it will be.” Yuuri rolls his eyes at Victor’s dramatics and infinite self-assurance.

 

“He’s pretty arrogant, isn’t he?” Yuuko had asked him once, early after Victor had arrived.

“I don’t think so,” He’d replied slowly.

“I think he just acts with his body. I’m not sure it occurs to his mind to start doubting.”

“That’s pretty harsh, Yuuri. And isn’t that the same thing as arrogance?”

“I just mean, it’s not baseless or exaggerated. It’s just the truth.” Yuuko had sighed then,

“You know Yuuri, you don’t have to think he’s perfect, even if he’s your coach and your childhood crush.” She’d left Yuuri and his thoughts alone in the locker room then. But Victor wasn’t perfect, Yuuri continued the argument in his head. He could be cruel, almost sadistically blunt if he didn’t know to be otherwise. He was clingy and almost childish if he didn’t get his way. But everyone had faults, he reasoned. And being too honest certainly wasn’t the worst thing to be.

 

“Yuri liked my routine,” Victor explains over dinner.

“Is that what you’re going to do now?” Minako asks in response, eyesbrows raised. It wasn’t a silly question, Yuuri thinks, despite Victor’s look of surprise. She just vocalised what we’ve been thinking for months: what is five-time World Champion Victor Nikiforov going to do now that the reason he quit skating has retired?

“I’m not sure. I like choreographing routines, but I’m not sure that’s all I want to do. I’m possessive, you see,” He _winks_ at Yuuri, “I don’t like just giving up what’s mine.”

“So what are you going to do then?” Why was she pressing the point? Yuuri frets internally. Was she _trying_ to drive him away? But Victor just shrugs.

“What about you, Yuuri-chan?” This was worse, to have both pairs of eyes on him, barely blinking.

“You’re only 24. What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know. I never made up my mind last time, before Victor showed up.” Minako looks amused, like she wants to laugh at him. It’s unpleasant.

“You could always help Yuuko give some beginner ice-skating lessons.” It’s not a bad idea, actually, and he tells her so. Her “you’re welcome” sounds a little sarcastic.

 

He’s been feeling unsettled for a while. Maybe having a job will help with that. At least, that’s what Victor suggests. Yuuko agrees the next day when he calls her, and that’s it. Suddenly he’s in charge of three classes of children: Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday afternoons. Two beginner classes and one ‘intermediate’, although as Yuuko reminds him, they’re only 10 years old so everyone will be a ‘beginner’ compared to what he’s used to seeing.

They’re hopeless. Most can barely stay on their feet at all, and Yuuri thanks Heaven and Earth _often_ that they’re too young to get enough speed up to seriously hurt themselves. He tells Victor as much one evening, when they’re in bed. He can feel Victor chuckle, his chest rumbling under Yuuri’s ear.

“You have to remember how you were at that age, I guess.” Yuuri hums in agreement,

“True. But I’d been skating for two years when I was 10 though. I guess because Yuuko’s family owned the rink.”

“I can’t remember when I started skating,” Victor admits, putting his phone down on the bedside table, “My mother told me I started when I was four. I fell the first time she put me on the ice.”

“You weren’t a natural?” Yuuri teases.

“Apparently I got so upset I threw tantrums every day to go back until I didn’t fall over.” Yuuri laughs. It’s so easy to imagine a tiny Victor (was he a chubby child? Probably not. He dismisses the idea) demanding to go back to the ice.

“Do you parents skate?”

“I’m Russian, Yuuri. Everyone learns to skate.”

“But – I mean, I’ve always been worried that my parents would have preferred it if I had done something else.”

“They weren’t huge skaters though, if that’s what you’re asking,” The past tense makes Yuuri shiver. How did he not know? Yuuri tries to figure out how to respond. Victor has never talked much about his family, and now Yuuri knows why. Feels like a jerk for bringing it up, however unintentionally.

He tries to sound sympathetic, but not pitying. He thinks that would be what he would want in this situation. He asks if their death was what prompted Victor to want to quit skating. Maybe it’s a callous question, but he’s curious. Victor doesn’t seem to mind answering, although the conversation moves on fairly quickly after that.

 

The weather has settled into wet, less ice and more rain.

Victor spends more time on the phone. They stop going on evening walks together. Yuuri walks Makkachin, who loves to jump in the puddles, while Victor sits in front of his phone and talks in Russian.

Victor stays up late more often, and soon Yuuri only ever goes running in the morning alone. They still go to the rink, but Victor mutters more in Russian and spins around Yuuri less. Yuuri starts teaching himself the routine, for wont of anything else to do. He stops quickly when Victor watches him and says to himself, perhaps unaware that Yuuri can hear him,

“No no, I’ll have to change that.” Yuuri tries to convince himself that he was at least useful, but mostly he feels hurt.

 

Victor’s 28 and independent, he tells himself another late night when he’s alone in bed. He’s got work just like you’ve got work, and it’s just unfortunate that the timing isn’t synchronised. His reasoning doesn’t really make him feel better, but gives him something to say when Yuuko pulls him aside and asks him, with so much concern in her voice that it makes him feel ill, whether everything is okay.

Victor’s 28 and if there were a problem, he would tell Yuuri. Yuuri’s almost certain of this, until he remembers that he’s 24 and he definitely hasn’t got a good track record of telling Victor if something’s wrong (unless he’s having a breakdown, his brain unhelpfully reminds him).

So he does ask him, the next day when he catches Victor at the rink,

“Is everything okay?” He says, painfully aware of his whiny his voice sounds, how much like a kid he sounds, “You’ve been pretty busy lately.” Victor barely looks at him, concentrating on his phone.

“Yes, just busy with Yuri.”

Suddenly, Yuuri’s angry. Hearing Victor have so much time for the younger Russian with the same name. But as quickly as the anger rises, it disappears again, leaving only shame. What right does Yuuri have to dictate how Victor spends his time? He’s about to leave, willing to care for his twisting stomach lone when he has an idea.

“Did you,” he pauses to collect his thoughts. It’s a selfish idea, but it’s worth a try, “Do you think you might be free to go out for dinner?”

Victor’s fingers still at that, and he smiles, nodding his head so vigorously that his hair flops in front of his eyes.

“Sounds good!” They smile at each other for a few seconds. Hopefully Yuuko’s not around, they probably look really silly. Then Victor’s phone buzzes, and the moment is over.

“See you tonight then,” Yuuri calls over his shoulder as he heads to the rink. Victor doesn’t reply.


	2. (Winter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Four seasons fill the measure of the year;_  
>  _There are four seasons in the mind of men._  
>  \- John Keats

Yuuri wins in the winter. He’s beautiful, stunning, ethereal, under the spotlight of the rink, on the podium. When his score had been announced he’d burst into tears, and just as quickly turned away from the camera to hide his face in Victor’s shoulder. Victor had almost sprained a muscle in his face from how wide he was smiling. Almost sprained more of his body and Yuuri’s when he’d gotten so excited about his score that he’d sent them both tumbling off of the bench.

Now he’s looking up at Yuuri, who’s still flushed and teary-eyed. Thinks of Yuuri’s parents and friends who surely are proud of this stunning young man. They’ve known him for longer, but Victor can’t comprehend how it could be possible to feel more proud than he does now. Yuuri’s eyes find him, and smiles even wider. There’s probably a camera on him too, Victor knows. It’s the first Grand Prix in five years he hasn’t won. Someone’s probably interested in how he feels. If they asked, right now, as he and Yuuri grin stupidly at each other, he’d answer, truthfully,

“It feels like my heart is going to burst.”

 

He barely manages to get Yuuri home, he’s near-completely collapsed. It should be annoying, the way Yuuri stares vacantly at the reporters, and can barely walk on his own, or how he drools on Victor’s very expensive coat, but it’s not. All Victor feels is a bright, bubbling fondness. Fond as he gets him through the door, and into bed. Fond and proud. They’re two emotions he’s not overly familiar with, but now that he knows them, he never wants them to leave.

The next morning, he lets Yuuri sleep in. A skater’s life is filled with early mornings, and Yuuri hates them. He suffers through Victor’s energetic morning routines good-naturedly enough, but he doesn’t need to today. He sits up and grabs his book. Lets Yuuri curl around his legs and bury his nose into Victor’s waist. It’s adorable. It’s hard to concentrate on the book when he can run his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, or across his shoulders. Especially when he makes those muffled noises, the sleepy huffs.

It’s almost 9am when Yuuri finally opens his eyes.

“Hi,” he murmurs softly. Victor smiles down at him,

“Hi yourself. How are you feeling? A bit better now that you’ve slept?”

“Yes, much. I can hardly remember getting home.” Victor laughs,

“I’m not surprised. You were asleep for most of it,” He pauses to put his book down, and then leers. It makes Yuuri squirm.

“So, Yuuri Katsuki, Grand Prix champion,” He punctuates each word with a kiss, “How would you like to be rewarded?” Kisses his way down Yuuri’s chest, hovers over him. Yuuri trembles.

He doesn’t say anything but, “Please.”

No matter, Victor thinks. He’s got plenty of ideas.

 

Later, when they’ve showered and eaten, Yuuri leans his head on Victor’s shoulder, and says,

“You know, you promised me katsudon when I won,”

“That’s true.”

“You promised you’d eat it with me.”

“I certainly will. I‘ll eat it without you too.”

“You promised I could eat it with just you.”

“Yes?” Victor hesitates. Yuuri’s voice is firm and low, but he’s not sure he understands.

“What did you mean when you agreed?” Yuuri asks.

“Yuuri,” Victor draws out the ‘u’, rolls the ‘r’, “Are you thinking something dirty? Like ‘am I the katsudon’?”

“No!” Yuuri blushes beautifully. Victor pries away the hands that are covering his face. He wants to see the blush, he wants to hold Yuuri’s hands.

“Yuuri, I want everything. I meant _everything_ by that,” His voice rumbles, almost cracks at the end. It’s embarrassing but so worth it to see those eyes widen. Yuuri’s lips part in silence, “I’d ask you what you meant Yuuri, but I think you’ve already explained it, right?” Yuuri nods, “You’re not very subtle, Yuuri.”

Yuuri huffs, “Like you can talk!”

 

Yuuri continues to be adorable. Victor hates celebrating his birthday, prefers to hide behind the colourful haze of western Christmas. Yuuri’s family don’t do Christmas, but Yuuri gives him a gift. He says,

“Merry Christmas!”

But Victor knows what he means. He appreciates the subtlety. Subtle-tea. He makes himself laugh, and snorts tea from his nose. It _burns_.

 

Victor lets himself touch Yuuri more now. It had been hard to resist before, but he had wanted to the best thing for his student. But Yuuri’s not his student anymore, so he doesn’t need to worry about distracting or distressing him. He plays with his hair, curls his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders when they’re on the couch – it’s delightful.

He thinks Yuuri likes it, except for the hand-holding. Yuuri flinches the first time Victor tries it, which is upsetting. He tries to pull away, and apologise (for what – for frightening him, he truly doesn’t know), but Yuuri won’t let him. He tightens his grip around Victor’s fingers. His reaction is the same every time Victor holds his hand. Eventually Victor just accepts it, that this specific form of demonstrating affection might be particularly unusual – or has a heavier meaning, culturally, for Yuuri that maybe Victor’s unaware of. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop, really. He loves holding Yuuri’s hand when they walk Makkachin, or when they watch TV on the couch, or ride on the train, or lie next to each other in bed. He just really likes holding hands.

 

They’ve never been on a date, Victor realizes one afternoon while he’s washing the dishes. He purses his lips: how can he call himself a good partner if he doesn’t even take his partner out on nice dates?

But what if Yuuri doesn’t want to go on a date with him, a treacherous thought whispers through his mind. It’s not as if he’s ever asked, after all, and he’s hardly been shy in telling Victor what he wants when it comes to their relationship. The thought pulls Victor up short.

He’s never asked anyone on a date before without being certain they’d say ‘yes’. More precisely, he thinks sourly, he’s never _asked_ at all. Many of his previous partners enjoyed surprises, or they had the sort of relationship in which everyone was happy for Victor to take charge of what they did, or they weren’t in the position to go out, _be_ out, at all. They’re not hiding, but Yuuri is not the type to enjoy surprises, he knows that much. And Victor is definitely not always in charge of their activities, so to speak.

He’s a bit lost; it worries him. He’s not prone to worry, and he finds the few days he spends planning, and plotting, and postulating the best way to ask Yuuri out to be exhausting.

Eventually, he realizes, there’s nothing else to it: he’s just going to have to ask. Nothing fancy either, Yuuri would probably appreciate the simplicity; he’d get overwhelmed by grand gestures (although he certainly doesn’t seem to mind making them, Victor notes with amusement).

Just asking, without being able to hide behind surprises, or flowers, or routine, is a surprisingly frightening prospect. He _stutters_ when asking, like a school boy. He’s mortified about it, until he notices how distressed Yuuri looks. His eyes are stuck wide open, his fingers are shaking. Victor wants to hold his hand (and stick something in his mouth, but now is not the time, he tells himself firmly).

“Aren’t we already dating?” Yuuri manages to get out. Victor wants to melt into the ground now.

“Yes?”

“So why are you asking me to date you?” Date, date, go date, go _on_ date – it clicks.

“Go _on_ a date with me!” He’s too embarrassed to admit he was just too nervous and accidentally swallowed some words. He excuses himself instead, with some grammar term – he’s not sure what he says actually.

Yuuri says ‘yes’. It’s all Victor can do to contain himself and not pump his fist. He’s excited – feels his stomach bubble. He likes good food, and beautiful men, and the two together are a recipe for a guaranteed good time.

It is however, a disaster. Yuuri looks ready to cry the entire time. He’s _uncomfortable,_ Victor realizes. The sinking anchor in his gut feels a lot like guilt. He looks delectable in the suit, but keeps shifting, looking like he can’t decide between ripping off the tie, or tightening it to strangle himself. The appreciative glances people are shooting them seem to make him more nervous. He looks like a rabbit, Victor thinks, ready to bolt. A proud one though. He tries hard to smile at Victor’s jokes, even if he never manages a laugh.

Yuuri keeps whispering under his breath. Although he can hardly hear, Victor is sure he’s counting to keep his breathing under control.

Victor has never had a worse date. And this is Yuuri’s first one, or at least, the first one that was going to go somewhere. He’s given himself a bad reputation, given ‘dates’ a bad name. Victor sighs, and asks for the bill. They can get dessert somewhere else. There’s coconut at the resort.

Yuuri brightens up briefly when they walk out, a quicksilver flash, a brief moment of blue sky on a rainy day, before hunching in on himself again. He’ll give himself a backache like that, Victor thinks, and puts his hand on the small of Yuuri’s back.

Yuuri won’t look at him, even once they get back. It’s an even sadder end to a date than the time Victor’s date had thrown up, burst into tears, and admitted he was just trying to get back at his ex. Sadder because this time it’s his fault.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri’s meek apology interrupts his regret. He’s shocked. He’s the one who’s sorry, and says as much.

“But you were so excited, and I ruined it,” Yuuri’s still speaking so quietly, as if he’s sacred of Victor.

“I was excited to spend an evening dedicated to you,” he explains, “This was just the only way I knew how to do it. I should have known something more casual would suit you better, like ramen,” Yuuri cringes. Victor curses internally, “Suit _us_ better,” He corrects, but Yuuri continue to frown down at his hands, which twist in his lap. It just won’t do, Victor decides. He started this evening poorly, progressed through it poorly; he’ll be damned if he lets it end poorly too. His expression turns salacious, and he trails his fingers down Yuuri’s arm. This at least is something he’s good at, and knows Yuuri enjoys.

 

Yuri messages him one morning.

<< Stop gloating about your honeymoon on Instagram. It’s polluting my feed. >>

<< No. I’m in love <3 <3 <3 I need to share it with the entire world. >>

<< Barf >>

Victor cackles. Yuri is so easy to wind up.

They are on a sort of honeymoon though. He hadn’t thought of it that way, but it’s true. They wake up together, walk Makkachin together, curl up on the couch and watch TV together. It’s so much more domestic than any relationship he’s ever had before. And he knows part of it is that neither of them are training, they’re not constantly and shamelessly cheating on one another with their first love: skating. But he thinks maybe he’s grown up, or maybe Yuuri’s changed him. He finds himself telling Yuuri things that he finds hard to even think about by himself, like his childhood. Yuuri makes him comfortable. Like a soft sweater in the autumn, he feels like his heart is being hugged by Yuuri whenever they’re together.

They go on dates more frequently now. Victor figures out how to walk the tightrope between a ‘too big deal’ that makes Yuuri anxious, and a ‘not enough of a big deal’ that it isn’t really a date. There are no more near panic attacks, no more near tears. But Yuuri still doesn’t look like he’s really enjoying himself, although he never complains. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

They go out to the markets. Yuuri shows him around as if it’s a tour, and he’s the guide. Victor won’t deny that the history and culture lesson is interesting, but he had wanted to go out with his boyfriend, not a teacher.

They try to make borscht. Yuuri worries too much about getting the right ingredients that it makes _him_ anxious. It tastes delicious, but takes two hours and several rushed trips to the store than is necessary.

They go out for ice-crema at the pier. Yuuri is preoccupied with trying to eat it without any drips. Victor is so distracted by the technique, which involves a lot of surely unnecessary tongue-swirling, he trips over Makkachin. Yuuri is so distraught about whether Makkachin is okay that the date ends then and there, and they go to the vet. Makkachin is fine, of course. Victor is too enamoured to complain.

They go dancing, and Yuuri won’t stop whispering that he’s going to make Victor trip over.

Whenever they go out for dinner, he can’t relax, keeps shooting glances off to the side to check if anyone is looking at them.

Even when he’s not anxious, which Victor finds frustrating but can understand that he has little control over, he’s preoccupied. It’s enough to make Victor think he really doesn’t enjoy going out together at all. It’s disheartening.

And yet, Yuuri thanks him after each one, says he really enjoyed himself. He’s hard to read, Victor decides. Hard to read but honest with his words. He has to believe that, or else he won’t have any idea at all what Yuuri thinks.

 

They talk about it one night, after Victor’s had too much to drink and said too much. Yuuri seems surprised to hear that Victor can’t always tell how he feels.

“I guess I’m just anxious,” He says. Victor prompts him to go on, 

“I don’t really understand why you’re with me.” And that is an absolute tragedy. He doesn’t believe in God, but thinks if one did exist, they must have a cruel sense of humour. That the people with all the goodness in the world, the kindness, the faithfulness, can’t see how precious they are, and others can so grotesquely exaggerate their own importance.

Victor thinks of his previous lovers. He’d always through confidence went hand-in-hand with beauty, but clearly not. Yuuri is blind to his own charms, which is charming in its own way. He’ll just have to show Yuuri how beautiful he is. It’s becoming a pattern, but one he’s happy to repeat.

 

He starts to dream of the ocean. Each dream is so vivid, and lifelike, that he often wakes up feeling disorientated.

He walks along the shore of a beach he’s never been to before: soft white sand, turquoise water. An orange crab scuttles ahead of him. There are barely any shells. It feels as though he’s walking on a cloud, the sand is so fine. The water is warm when the tide rises and the waves lap at his feet. There are no seagulls. There is no sound at all other than the rhythmic wash of the waves.

Each dream is the same. He walks along the ceaseless shore, never pausing in his steps, until he sees a sandcastle. After that he heads towards the water. His feet get wet once, twice, three times. And then everything changes.

His perspective tilts, disorientates him. He’s pulled forward, pushed backward, spun around. And then, just as suddenly, the serenity returns. He floats, finds a rhythm. He becomes the waves.

It feels like forever. He ebbs and flows. Forward and backward, up and down; he’s always in motion, but never changing.

Someone appears one day on the beach. He can’t tell who. But they are the first, the _only_ person he’s seen on the beach other than himself. It’s hard to remember now that he wasn’t always the tide. He tries to call out, but of course, he can’t speak. If the ocean had a mouth can you imagine the screams and secrets it could release? He tries to wave hello on their ankles, but can’t quite reach. It’s too early in the day.

They walk away.

The come back, but once again, not close enough for Victor to touch them. This repeats, endlessly. Victor strains, stretches but never gets there. Whoever it is walks along the short. They never come closer, never step into the water, despite not wearing shoes. They walk past the sandcastle. They keep walking, but there’s no end to Victor. The two of them run as parallel lines. It should feel cruel, but it doesn’t. He’s unbothered. The ocean has no need for feelings after all. The tide is eternal. What could one human do to impact on that?

He walks up still smelling salt in the air. It takes some minutes for the dream to fade, for coordination to return to his fingers.

 

He should choreograph it, he decides after really two weeks of the same dream every night. He hasn’t choreographed anything since Yuuri’s routines. Yuuri is barely conscious when he leaves. He feels barely conscious too: already planning, already going around the rink in his mind. The focus settles in on his brain like the heat of the summer, heavy and seemingly permanent.

He lets the feeling of the waves wash over him, lets the tide carry his feet. The ocean is ready, the waves are steady, repetitive, but rolling slightly differently each time. He knows this now. The figure on the shore is so close and the ocean moves away. Closer, further: the moon decides through-out the day.

There’s clapping, suddenly. He skids to a stop. Yuuri’s at the side of the rink, looking at Victor with flushed cheeks and a warm smile. It’s a good look on him.

It’s been an hour. Victor hadn’t noticed. He skates over to the edge of the rink.

“What did you think? I dreamt of the ocean and the tide. I was thinking of giving it to Yuri. He needs a new short program. Although if I did, Yakov might kill me. Yuri said he’s trying to get back together with Lilia by having her choreograph Yuri’s routines.”

“I didn’t know Yuri was such a gossip.”

“He’s almost 16,” Victor says with a flip of his hair, “Almost 16 and surrounded by Russian artists. If you don’t gossip the drama and the melancholy will kill you.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Not yet, but it will be.”

 

It becomes an obsession. His dream of the ocean stops coming every night. It’s replaced with dreams of skating the developing routine. Back to normal, he thinks, amused at the limited range of his creativity.

He gets Yuuri to film him, and he sends it to Yuri. He did promise to choreograph for him.

<< That’s a girl’s routine. >> 

<< You try telling that to Mila. >>

There’s a long pause. He hopes Yuri didn’t go to Mila. He doesn’t want his protégé to die so early.

<< It’s incomplete. >>

<< Obviously. The jumps will depend on what you can do. >>

<< It’s for me !?!?!?! >>

<< Happy birthday, Yura!! >>

<< My birthday is in June. >>

<< And don’t call me that. >>

<< Well, belated or early wishes then. Do you want it? >>

<< Show me a version with the jumps. >>

<< Unless you’re too weak now, old man. >>

<< Careful Yurio. I might give you something you can’t do, and then what will you do? >>

<< Get to it. >>

 

He does. Yuuri is very forgiving of his new obsession. Helpful too. It’s only when he skates it and looks so damn shaky during one combination that Victor realizes how off-balance the manoeuvre is. He’d thought it was just him.

 

The colours return to the trees. Yuuri gets a job. He teaches some beginners. He comes home frustrated and unsure of himself sometimes, but Yuuko assures him that he’s doing fine. To Victor, she whispers,

“He’s doing great. One of the little girls has a crush on him. It’s hilarious.”

It’s something Victor has to see, so he sneaks into the stands one afternoon and watches Yuuri’s session. The little girl and her crush _is_ hilarious. She keeps asking Yuuri if she’s doing it right. And Yuuri is delightful to watch like this. His movements are so smooth on the ice, his voice so warm as he chats with the children. He never loses patience as they ignore him, and always comforts them when they call. It fills Victor with bubbles to watch him, makes him smile without noticing.

That evening, Yuuri comes home and complains about them, more than usual.

“They’re hopeless,” He says. Victor’s so enamoured with him that he lets the ensuing conversation about parents continue. Normally he’d shift gears, change direction. But he finds that he _wants_ to tell Yuuri. Suddenly, he can’t even remember why he’d ever wanted to hide their deaths from this kind man, who worries about another person’s dog and other people’s children.

“I don’t think my father ever understood figure skating. My mother loved it though.” He can feel Yuuri tense.

 “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“When did, um – ” There is no way to delicately ask. Victor appreciates that Yuuri has at least tried.

“About two years ago.”

“Just after your fourth World Championship,” Victor nods, “Is that why you stopped competing?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. I was bored after the fifth one. I didn’t feel like there was any point in doing it again, I guess. I didn’t really think about it – I just saw your video and it made me feel like I could love skating again. It was beautiful.”

“It was your routine!” Yuuri jokes, and laughs when Victor rolls him over, fingers digging into his sides just under his ribs. The conversation is over. He feels lighter, brighter for having relinquished the secret.

 

Their relationship continues to develop. Yuuri asks _him_ on a date for the first time. They go out for dinner, to a restaurant so tiny it seems like might actually just be someone’s living room. He tells this to Yuuri, who laughs.

“The food here is really good,” He explains, pointing to various things on the menu that Victor can’t read, “I’ve always loved coming here, because it’s small enough that you don’t feel embarrassed for eating alone. And it’s kind of charming.”

It is indeed. It’s small and minimally decorated, except for the occasional decorative owl. The more Victor looks around, the more he can see. Yuuri laughs at his expression.

“I counted 32 once.” Victor looks over the room.

“28. Where are the other four?”

“You know, I’ve completely forgotten,” Yuuri responds lightly.

“Are you lying to laugh at me while I try to find owls that don’t exist?” Victor asks suspiciously. Yuuri breaks out into peels of laughter. Victor is curiously reminded of snowflakes.

“Of course not! It’s been years. Let’s search together!”

They spend the rest of the evening eating and searching for owls, laughing together. It’s _fun._

As they walk back, holding hands – an act which never fails to bring Victor glee – he decides he should let Yuuri be in charge of their dates more often. Maybe always.


	3. Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Four seasons fill the measure of the year;_  
>  _There are four seasons in the mind of men._  
>  \- John Keats

They settle down into a new routine as the weather warms. They have dinner together every night, but go their own way during the day. Yuuri wakes up and goes on a run with Makkachin, helps his parents cook and clean during the day, teaches the children, and skates in the afternoon. He’s not sure what Victor does – he’s often still asleep when Yuuri leaves. They pass each other in the hallways or at the rink.

Yuuri grows comfortable with it. It’s like an old shoe that no longer fits quite right, but doesn’t exactly hurt either. He remembers that he’d read online that most relationships end after nine months, and is thankful that hasn’t happened to them.

 

He’s in the middle of his evening stretch routine when Victor calls his name. It’s so unexpected he loses his balance and nearly falls. Victor flops to the ground beside him. He’s pouting, phone clutched in hand.

“Yuuri, I got offered a job,” Victor whines. It’s ridiculous to hear a grown man complain about being offered a job, and Yuuri tells him so. It only makes Victor pout more, until he too realizes how ridiculous he sounds and breaks into a rueful laugh, “Yakov called. Said if I’m going to spend so much time talking to Yuri about his performances I might as well be his actual coach.”

Yuuri’s lost for words. Luckily Victor doesn’t need him to say anything.

“But I’m not sure I want to. I mean, coaching is a lot of responsibility.”

“You coached me just fine,” Yuuri feels compelled to say.

“I know. But honestly, Yuri’s not going to win for another few years. He’s still growing into his body. I don’t know if I want to commit for that long.”

“I see.”

“So, Yakov told me come over. He said we could talk about it – give me a trial run, I could ask some more questions.” Victor keeps pausing, like he’s waiting for Yuuri to say something. But Yuuri doesn’t have anything to say.

He lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. Is Victor leaving him? He’s never been broken up with before. Or maybe Victor will not like it and come back? It seems unlikely. Victor had always trained in Russia, never moving to the US like so many Asian athletes do. He probably misses home, Yuuri realizes.

“So when do you leave?” Victor looks taken-aback. Yuuri remembers too late that he probably should have congratulated Victor on being offered the job. He’s being rude.

“Actually, I thought we would go together, if I went.”

“I’m sorry?” Victor’s cheeks are a little pink now, he’s looking away. He repeats himself, more slowly, and adds,

“I wouldn’t – I mean, I said I’d get back to Yakov when I knew what you thought.”

He could actually go, Yuuri thinks. There is only a week left of the skating lessons. He could just tell Yuuko he won’t be able to come back; she probably wouldn’t mind. And his parents won’t mind either – they won’t even have got used to him being back.

“Next week, I can leave next week.” Yuuri tells Victor, who yells and pumps his fist, then texts someone – Yuri or Yakov, Yuuri guesses. Victor hits send victoriously.

 

Victor falls asleep on Yuuri on the flight. Yuuri barely sleeps at all.

 

St Petersburg is beautiful. Victor looks like he belongs, perfectly suited to model the regal splendour of the city. It’s still cool enough that Yuuri’s glad he packed his scarves. It’s awfully windy in the city centre. They spend the day wandering around. Victor had shrugged off Yuuri’s concerns.

“Yakov can wait until tomorrow,” In fact, he seems over the moon to show Yuuri around. He’s not a great tour guide, admittedly – he gets easily distracted, realizes halfway through stories that he doesn’t actually know what he’s talking about, gets them lost. But it’s _fun._ The kind of silly fun that leaves you feeling giddy and ten years younger for all the laughter.

 

They don’t touch during the day. Victor had explained and Yuuri wasn’t in a hurry to rebel, but Victor more than makes up for it at night in their hotel room. Not that Yuuri has anyone to compare to, but he imagines Victor must be an intense lover. Having so much attention on you, and every move you make, is intoxicating. Cocktails in the summer heat, sex on the beach. It feels like a dream. It feels like how it used to, in the winter just after Yuuri won, he realizes afterwards, lying sweating with a dozing Victor at his side.

 

The alarm goes off at 4:30 the next morning. It breaks when Victor throws it against the wall. The smash wakes Yuuri up properly. Victor’s snapping to himself in Russian, scowling. It’s a little funny, given the man has always mocked Yuuri for not enjoying the early starts. Maybe 4:30 is finally too early for Victor. He’s reminded of Yuri, although figures Victor won’t appreciate the comparison. Just pulls Victor with him into the shower, where they can both wake up properly.

 

“I’ve always hated early morning practices,” Victor admits after they’ve set off for the rink, several cups of coffee later.

“You made it to mine every morning.”

“Yours were never this early. Yuri’s still in school so he has to get in before that starts,” Yuuri can remember what that was like. He doesn’t miss it, “That’s probably why he’s so cranky all the time actually,” Victor says seriously. Yuuri takes it upon himself to hit Victor’s arm playfully on Yuri’s behalf.

 

The Russian rink is busy and loud. Everyone is animated, gesticulating, nodding or shaking their heads. For all their expression though, Yuuri has no idea what’s going on. Stays close to Victor as they make their way around to the other side. They don’t move very fast as Victor keeps being stopped to talk. Yuuri can’t follow the conversation, but he lets Victor hold his hand, and waves whenever eyes turn to him. He tries to say hello – здравствуйте – but from Victor’s delighted grin and the way whoever they’re talking to laughs, he guesses he’s mangled the pronunciation.

Eventually they get to Yakov, who is standing beside a scowling Yuri. He’s taller now, almost taller than Yuuri. He surprises them both by hugging them, although the scowl remains intact. Yakov kisses Victor’s cheeks before turning to Yuuri and greeting him in heavily-accented English,

“And finally, we meet the one who stole Victor from us. Congratulations on your victory Katsuki,” Before Yuuri can thank him, he’s clapping his hands, “Now, to work!” Yakov continues in a string of Russian.

“We’re going to discuss strategy now, apparently. Do you want to come?” Victor asks him. It’s a kind offer, but Yuuri knows it’d be a pain for Victor to have to interpret all day. Still, he doesn’t actually think he’d be able to make his way home alone, so he nods his head and follows.

 

And so their new life in Russia begins. Victor decides to stay for a trial – until Yuri’s next competition, to see how it goes. Whether he ‘clicks’ with Yuri, he says. But Yuuri can hear the undertones: to make sure he doesn’t get bored.

Yuuri’s routine surprisingly doesn’t change too much. He wakes up with Victor – not by choice but because Victor complains so loudly and makes such a racket in his clumsiness that Yuuri inevitably ends up awake – and goes for a run. Victor comes back to the apartment for breakfast, most days. Yuuri slowly learns some Russian, mostly by necessity, although he dutifully does his half an hour of Duolingo each day. Someday he’s sure he’ll need to ask Tim for a bicycle. He heads to the rink for the afternoon, and joins Victor in watching Yuri. He doesn’t do much there – it’s hard to participate with the language barrier, but it’s nice to have company. He skates each evening when the rink gets a little emptier. It’s technically booked for Victor’s choreography, but as long as he stays out of the way no-one minds. They eat dinner together, sometimes. Victor works more in the evening. Yuuri goes to bed early.

It’s lonely, but he reminds himself of his early days in the US. He was only 19 when he’d first arrived. His English had been terrible – he could hardly understand anyone, including Celestino. With his Italian-American accent, and frequent interjections of Italian slang, it had been a disaster for the first few months. Then Phichit had arrived. They’d soon become fast friends. Yuuri helped Phichit after hours with this arm work, and Phichit had helped Yuuri with his English. With the extra help and the passing of time, he soon started to understand Celestino and training became exponentially more productive.

With these fond memories in mind, he’s especially pleased when Phichit calls him on Skype one afternoon.

“Hello Phichit-kun!”

“Hi Yuuri!” After the usual polite greetings – Phichit is gearing up for the next GP event, Makkachin sniffs the screen, Yuuri’s parents are well, thank you – the conversation turns more serious. Phichit looks stressed.

“I need your help.”

“Of course! You know, I still owe you one for helping me out getting the music for my free skate. What can I do?”

“I’ve been offered a coaching job in New Zealand.”

“Congratulations!” This time that he’s faced with someone else getting a job he manages to vocalise his congratulations, and they’re sincere.

“Right, thanks. But I can’t do it. I thought the timing would be flexible, but turns out they need someone to start in June. Anyway, I thought of you, because from your last email it sounds like you have a lot of time.” Yuuri flinches. He hadn’t wanted it to be so obvious, “It’s coaching Juniors. There’s two of them, both 14 years old, I think. They’re pretty serious about skating, so you don’t need to worry about a repeat of your Hasetsu Ice Castle coaching experience.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re a good teacher. Remember how you used to help me with my form?”

“I’ll…I’m in Russia at the moment,” Yuuri blurts out. Phichit raises an eyebrow.

“Working?”

“No. Victor’s working. He’s coaching. A trial run at coaching.”

“And what are you doing?”

 “Me? I’m just on a bit of a holiday. It’s relaxing,” He assures. Phichit looks concerned, but thankfully lets it lie.

“Well, I’ll email you the details. Let me know within a fortnight what you decide.”

 

Victor doesn’t join him for breakfast the next morning, so Yuuri thinks about the job offer while he does some yoga. It would pay well – extremely well once the cost of living in New Zealand and the exchange rate is taken into consideration. The real question is whether Yuuri would be able to do it. Phichit seemed pretty convinced that he could, which had taken off the sting of hearing that he too had a coaching job lined up.

On a whim, he calls up Yuuko to ask her opinion. She is unequivocally enthusiastic. Yuuri actually has to rip the earphones out of his ears when she starts screaming that _yes,_ he is absolutely capable and then continues onto her usual rant about his lacking self-confidence. The she asks a question Yuuri can’t answer,

“But what about Victor?”

 

Yuuri leaves it for a week. There’s no point thinking about it without a clear head, he knows. He keeps up with his running, keeps going to the rink with Victor to watch Yuri skate in the afternoons, keeps it in the back of his mind.

Finally, after six days, he sits at home and thinks about it properly. He’s never been to New Zealand, and never coached before. The unknown makes his stomach clench, but that’s not a deal-breaker. He’s done it before, after all. Moved to the other side of the world to try his best at something without knowing if he’d succeed. That’s not the issue.

He’s never left someone before though. And he would be leaving Victor behind. He’s not going to kid himself into thinking Victor might come with him. Victor’s a much demanded person, who’s doing a job that he really likes. It would be silly for him to leave. Besides, it wouldn’t be too long, Yuuri reasons. It’s five months until Yuuri’s assignment will finish. Four months, until Victor was finished, if he does stay until September. Yuuri knows that Victor hasn’t decided yet, but he’s pretty sure Victor will stay the entire time. Maybe even longer.

Did he want it, he hears his mother ask him. Is it something that he wants to do?

Yes, he realizes with a start, almost as if the thought was a rock he stumbled over. He does want to do it. He doesn’t want to vie up skating, and get a ‘real’ job – although what they would possibly be with studies in linguistics and literature, he’s never known (never planned that afar ahead, more like). This coaching job, with Juniors in New Zealand might be the start of something good. Maybe he can even inspire someone the way Victor inspired him. Maybe not exactly the same way, his brain adds, unhelpfully.

He wants it. For himself. He’s so selfish. He emails Phichit then and there. He doesn’t leave himself room to regret.

**To: Phichit Chulanont**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**I’ll do it.**

The reply comes almost immediately.

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Phichit Chulanont**

**:) :) :)**

 

He doesn’t tell Victor. There’s never an appropriate time. Victor’s so busy – working each morning and afternoon. He rarely comes back for breakfasts these days. He spends the evenings watching videos of Yuuri during training, and making notes. He doesn’t want to bother him when he’s working, knows how it important it is to retain focus. And he doesn’t want to interrupt their rare domestic moments.

He knows these are excuses. The knowledge doesn’t help.

 

They have dinner in, and they cook it together. It’s cute, domestic. Yuuri thinks to himself that he’s glad he decided weeks ago about the job. If he’d had to decide after this evening he might not have said ‘yes’.

Victor is a good cook, which had surprised Yuuri when he’d first found out months ago. Victor had raised an eyebrow and said, teasingly,

“I’m 28 Yuuri. How did you think I’d been surviving as an adult for the last decade?”

Yuuri forgets sometimes that Victor’s four years old than him. Sometimes he thinks it’s due to the double language barrier that simultaneously blocks Victor from being able to completely express himself and stops Yuuri from completely understanding him. Other times he believes it’s as simple as the fact that Victor’s vivacious personality hides the maturity Yuuri knows is underneath.

 

After they eat, and Yuuri’s curled up on the couch petting Makkachin. Victor pulls out a bottle of wine. Yuuri’s eyebrows raise,

“An apology,” Victor announces, pouring two glasses, “I know I’ve been busy, and I haven’t been helping you settle in here as much as I should have.” Yuuri manages a smile, and takes the glass, “I hope you haven’t been too bored.” Yuuri can only shake his head. Despairs inside, “Yuuri, I know you’re lying.”

Damn him, he thinks.

“Ah, who am I kidding? I guess, I just mean ‘thank you’. For being so patient, even though you’ve been so bored. Oh, and your comments today about Yura’s over-rotation were very good. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing, but you got it. You keep surprising me, Yuuri. Yakov wants to make more use of you, he says, helping coach others – would you be interested in that?”

This is the moment, Yuuri knows. He just has to tell Victor.

He has to clear his throat. Victor’s full attention is on him, head cocked, like a curious bird.

“I got a job, actually.” Victor’s eyebrows have climbed and he’s grinning.

“Today? Congratulations, Yuuri! I didn’t know you were looking,” He pauses and blinks rapidly, like he thoughts are coming too quickly, “But where? Your Russian isn’t very good.”

Yuuri digs deep. He’s known for his stubbornness, not his courage.

“In New Zealand.”

He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until it’s been seconds and there’s just silence. He thought he wouldn’t want to see Victor’s reaction, but if there’s nothing to hear, he has to see it. Forces his eyes open. And.

He actually doesn’t know. Victor’s expression is curiously closed. Not angry. Not upset. Not anything that Yuuri was worried about, secretly, in the back of his mind. Not anything at all. It’s disconcerting. For all that his grey hair and blue eyes make him look like an ice prince, Victor has never before looked cold. It’s horrible, and Yuuri feels like this might be worse.

Victor takes a deep breath, and puts down the glass. Stretches his wrists, and his neck. Finally, finally, he looks at Yuuri.

“In New Zealand,” He says flatly. Yuuri nods.

“Until October. There are two Juniors who need a coach. Their one left – family illness.”

“Right. So, when do you leave?”

“In 10 days.”

“Right,” Victor doesn’t say any more. Yuuri doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure if Victor’s angry, or if he just doesn’t care at all. He was worried about the former, and secretly suspected the latter, but he can’t tell. Victor stands up and goes to the kitchen, starts washing the dinner plates. Yuuri might be sick. Goes and dries the dishes anyway.

 

It’s not until the kettle has boiled, and they’re both back sitting on the couch, that the silence ends. Victor hands Yuuri his cup of peppermint tea. Picks up his cup. Doesn’t sip.

“I am trying,” Victor says slowly, measuredly, “To figure out if I am being selfish for wishing that you would have talked to me about this before you made your decision,” Victor pauses, and stares into his mug, “I am sorry for not noticing how upset you were here.”

“Victor, I’m not upset,” Yuuri tries, but he’s interrupted,

“Yuuri, with all due respect, no-one who is happy takes a job offer in _New Zealand_ ,” Victor snaps, fingers going white as they press into the sides of the cup, “Do not lie to me anymore.”

That shuts Yuuri up. Literally. Makes his jaw click closed. He didn’t ever think of it as lying.

 

“Are you breaking up with me?” He manages to ask, when he can’t bear the silence any more. His voice is small and wet. He’s crying, but looks down quickly to hide the tears from Victor. He hears a sigh.

“No. No, Yuuri. I’m just disappointed.” That’s all Victor says before walking off to their bedroom. Somehow the idea of disappointing Victor hurts more than anything else Yuuri could have imagined.

 

Yuuri crawls into bed hours later. Victor’s not asleep, but makes no move to roll over. They lie back to back. Yuuri tries not to cry again.

 

The 10 days are awful. Yuuri watches videos of the Juniors and learns their routines. He tries to pay to use the rink to learn them himself, but the woman behind the counter refuses his money. He doesn’t understand what she’s saying but can make out ‘Виктор’. He decides not to push.

They eat breakfast together every day now. But almost always in silence. Sometimes they exchange pleasantries, or requests to pass the fruit, or attempts to coordinate schedules.

Yuuri doesn’t know what to do. He can’t cancel on the job now. Victor testily tells him that’s not what he’s asking for. He’s sorry for not talking to Victor about it,

“It’s fine, Yuuri. You don’t owe me anything.”

But honestly, he never felt like Victor was particularly interested in Yuuri’s day, or future, or anything at all! The sound of a plate crashing stops the argument in its tracks. He hadn’t meant to shout. His emotions get the best of him sometimes. He apologizes,

“It’s nothing, Yuuri.”

Nothing gets better.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Yuuri?” Victor asks one evening, “You had become so much more comfortable telling me what you wanted over the last six months.” Victor sounds hurt, and Yuuri can’t stand it. He’s been such an idiot.

“I don’t know,” He whispers, “I didn’t know how to bring it up, and you were always so busy. And then it became this _thing_ that I hadn’t told you, and I got scared of how upset you’d be that I hadn’t told you.”

“And that just made it harder,” Victor finishes for him.

“Yes. And I knew it was way too late but I couldn’t not tell you anymore.”

He watches Victor mouth the words to himself, frowning as he figures out the double-negative.

“Well,” Victor tries to smile, “At least you didn’t wait until the very last minute.” It’s cold comfort.

 

Victor buys Yuuri another scarf the day before he leaves.

“To keep warm, in New Zealand.” Yuuri already has several scarves, but this one looks and feels just like Victor’s red sweater.

“Thank you.” The moment feels formal. But Victor doesn’t say anything else, and Yuuri doesn’t want to push.

 

“You don’t have to drive me. I could just get a taxi.”

“Nonsense, Yuuri,” Victor doesn’t look at him as he places Yuuri’s suitcase in the car, “It’s not a problem. Besides, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t see you off at the airport?”

They smile at each other. It’s so sad. Yuri would probably punch them both if he was here, Yuuri thinks. He’s overheard the younger man yelling a few choice words at Victor at the rink over the last week. Because of course the only Russian Victor had ever taught him were the rude ones. He stops himself there, he’s not being fair. Victor had helped, or at least had tried to help, every night until Yuuri had said that the Duolingo app worked better alone.

 

What is he doing, he asks himself as he stares out of the window. He watches the city lights flash past.

“Victor, I –” He doesn’t know what to say, “I’m sorry,” He finishes lamely.

“Why, Yuuri? You’re going off to do something new, and fun – it’s exciting,” Victor’s got a bright grin plastered on his face. It hurts to look at, “Yuuri Katsuki, New Zealand Junior Championship coach. Pretty cool, isn’t it? You’re always so full of surprises.”

He’s pretty sure Victor’s trying to cheer him up, but each word feels like the prick of a needle in his heart. Is he bleeding? It feels like he should be.

Too soon they’re at the airport, walking and checking in. He’s missed his chance to say anything meaningful, to fix it before leaving.

“Have fun, Yuuri,” Victor whispers in his ear in front of security. They’d done their kisses goodbye in the apartment. There’s nothing to say here.

“Have fun with Yuri.”

Neither of them move, until Victor smiles ruefully,

“Alas. I must let you go, or you’ll miss your flight.” He’s over an hour early. They don’t mention it, “Be safe.”

“Thank you. You too, Victor.”

“Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do!”

“You greeted me naked in the public baths.”

“Definitely don’t do that. You’ll terrify the, what do you call them, the Kiwis.” Victor winks, over-exaggerated. It’s such a bad joke, but it makes Yuuri feel a little better. Maybe that’s what Victor had intended, he wonders as he makes his way through security.

What on Earth had he done?


	4. (Spring)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Four seasons fill the measure of the year;_  
>  _There are four seasons in the mind of men._  
>  \- John Keats

It takes a while, but he gets a first completed free skate for Yuri. It will need to change, depending on the requirements of this year’s program, or on what music Yuri will want. But the timing is right, and it’s challenging enough to keep him busy. He sends the video.

Yakov calls him the next day.

 “You hate talking on the phone.”

“This warrants it. Vitya, what are you doing? Distracting Yura from his skating?” Yakov’s tone is gruff, “We come in and ask him to do the first minute of this season’s short, and he says he doesn’t know it. Shows us your twirling one instead, hmm?”

Victor rolls his eyes.

“Why are you calling Yakov? You’re not telling me off, because we both know that never worked, and besides, you know it’s a beautiful routine.”

“Yes, it’s beautiful, Vitya. You don’t need me to tell you that, though. Come back to Russia, come teach Yura your routine, properly.”

Victor’s shocked. Yakov is a closed coach: his way or nothing. Yuri must have pestered hard. Or maybe Yakov remains fonder of him than he realized. A gateway into coaching Russia’s best shot at a new champion? Victor wasn’t worried about finding work, but this is a far better offer than he’ll otherwise get. And he wants to coach Yuri. He likes the kid, and does feel the slightest bit guilty for abandoning him for Yuuri.

“I’ll have to ask Yuuri.”

“You need permission?” Yakov laughs. It vexes him.

“I need to know if he’ll come. I’m not just going to leave him and move home.”

“Oh,” Yakov sounds stunned. Honestly, did people think he and Yuuri were just playing around all last season? “Well, come visit. See what you think, like a trial run.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Yes, do.”

 

They talk about it. Yuuri seems to think they’d break up. Honestly, did _he_ think Victor was playing all last season too? But he seems enthused when Victor explains that, no, he’d like them to go together.

So they do.

 

It’s good to be home, Victor thinks as they land among the lights of St Petersburg at night. Not that he was homesick at Hasetsu, he corrects, but there’s always something special about coming home to your city, to your apartment in your neighbourhood. Where you know the fastest routes and the best take-out. He’s excited, mostly to show Yuuri around. His mind brims with ideas. They’re going to have so much fun!

 

His cheer doesn’t last too long. Yuri’s practices start at a heinous time in the morning. He calls himself a morning person, but waking up at 4:30 is not the morning. It’s still _night-time._ He says as much to Yuuri, who just smiles and pats his head. The action is so clearly an auto-pilot response – Yuuri’s eyes aren’t even open – that Victor can’t summon the additional energy to act affronted.

 

Eventually they make it to the rink, after a very enjoyable shower together, and a public transport commute that was anything but enjoyable.

“Back home,” He says to Yuuri, who nods in understanding. One’s home rink is always a special place, “Get ready, Yuuri. It’s going to be loud.”

“What?” But Yuuri doesn’t get to complete his question before Victor pushes open the doors and the noise of flocking, excitable Russians greats them. It’s been so long since he’s been here. He hasn’t seen anyone in more than a year.

He flits from person to person, accepting greetings, deflecting criticism, returning jokes and well-wishes. Of course, everyone is far more interested to meet Yuuri. Whenever Yuuri hears his own name, he lifts his hand and waves shyly, and stammers out a ‘hello’ – in Russian. It’s amazing. He mangles the pronunciation a little, but it’s understandable. Anna laughs, and he grins. Yuuri looks embarrassed, his ears are turning red, but it’s not intended to be mocking.

“Always such a surprise,” he murmurs in Yuuri’s ear. It doesn’t help with the blushing. He’ll have to reward him for that little gift this evening.

It takes almost an hour, but they eventually make it to Yakov and Yuri. The kid has grown, he notes with some surprise. A late growth spurt. It must have annoyed Lilia no end. Yuri’s too tall now, too broad in the shoulders, to pass as a ballerina anymore. He lifts a hand to wave at Yuri – he’s feeling generous today, and so won’t embarrass him with a hug. His thoughtful restraint jukes makes Yuri roll his eyes, before he hugs them both. Of his own accord. And Yakov smiles at him. Truly, a miraculous day.

“Are you awake Vitya?” Yakov asks.

“Yes. But no thanks to Yura. These practices are too early,” He whines. Yuri rolls his eyes. Does it hurt to roll one’s eyes so often, Victor wonders.

“Come off of it, old man. You don’t have to go to school after.”

“I’ve done my time!”

“Come off of it, both of you,” Yakov smirks, and claps his hands, “We have to talk strategy. We have a free skate but no short program, and Yuri loses his balance like a calf now that he’s grown so much. So much work to do, such little time.”

“It’s still March. There’s literally six months left.”

“That only seems like a long time to you because you are a baby.”

“You’re a dinosaur!” Victor laughs. He turns to share the joke with Yuuri, but remembers that Yuuri wouldn’t have understood.

“We’re going to talk strategy now, want to come?” Yuuri nods, and lets Victor take his hand to lead him as they follow Yakov. Yuri follows them.

“Lilia doesn’t like your choreography,” Yuri warns.

“Why not?”

“She says it’s too flimsy.”

“It makes him look like a fairy,” She screams as they enter the room. Yuuri’s grip tightens in his hand, “A weak one. Honestly, and the combinations are awkward for someone of his height, and – ” She continues to rant and pick apart his routine. Everything is wrong. The music is not emotional enough, the repetitions are saccharine. The step routine is out of place the Salchows should be flips. He has a headache already,

“And how on Earth are you going to come up with a short program that matches it?” She finally finishes. His head shoots up.

“A short program?” She huffs,

“Of course. Are you going to leave a job half done?” Yakov nods, and Yuri smirks.

“There’s not a lot of time. We’ll need it in two weeks.”

“It took me a month to do the last one.”

“Well, this one is half as long, so you’ll only need half the time.” Does Yuri know how fond this woman is of him, Victor wonders, that she’s pestering and bargaining to get him the most practice time possible?

“We both know it doesn’t work that way. A month, and you’ll have your routine.”

“And you’ll stay until September to coach me,” Yuri adds.

“Maybe,” He responds with a meaningful glance, tilts his head towards Yuuri.

“Fine. We must get to work!” Lilia proclaims. Yakov looks like he’s ready to accept death. Yuri has a sadistic grin. He’s worried.

 

The work is hard. He’s at the rink for 10 hours a day – coaching, choreographing, correcting his mistakes and Yuri’s. Yuuri joins them in the afternoon, a fact for which he is grateful. He’s not sure how he’d deal with the constant criticism if he couldn’t turn and see Yuuri, always so steady and kind. He’s also surprisingly useful: very observant, and always ready with a perfect explanation of what’s wrong. Yuri hates being corrected by him, but even he has to admit, albeit grudgingly, that each time he was right.

Honestly, they’re running him ragged. On easy days he’s got enough time to go home for breakfast. Those are the better days. Unfortunately, they become less common as time passes. He’s up late many nights too. Falls into bed, asleep before he even hits the mattress. He sees Yuuri only in snippets. It’s awful. Keeps himself going only with the knowledge that it will end.

 

“I’m not sure I really like this,” He confesses to Yuuri one morning, “I mean, I owe Yuri really. I’m doing it for him. But it’s exhausting!”

Yuuri nods, “You do seem tired. You’re doing well though. I believe in you!” It’s sweet.

“They want me to stay until September,” He admits quietly.

“What do you want?” Yuuri’s voice is calm.

“I don’t know.”

 

He finally cracks after two months.

“Is this some sort of test?” He asks Yakov, “Because I’m here longer than you or Lilia. The routines were perfectly fine two weeks ago. What is going on?”

Yakov smiles, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your work is of course appreciated.”

Victor walks out, fuming at that evasive answer. Stomps out back to work.

He holds Yuuri’s hand as they watch Yuri go around the ice. Squeezes. Yuri nails his first quad. Yuuri squeezes back. He’s 28 and it makes his heart skip a step. No wonder Yuri makes fun of him so much.

“Yuri, stop!” Yuuri calls out, startling Victor. He hadn’t been paying attention, “Do it from the part with the arms again.”

Yuri looks at Victor, who nods. He’s not sure what Yuuri saw, but he’s usually right. Yuri does it again,

“Ah,” He exhales. He’s awkward on his feet. But why?

“I think he’s dragging his left foot. He needs to move before the beat. He’s over-rotating to compensate,” Yuuri says hesitantly. Victor stares at him.

“You’re amazing, Yuuri! Did you hear that, Yura?”

 

Later, he tells Yakov, who nods seriously,

“He has been quite observant – not like you, Vitya,” Victor’s used to hearing compliments doused with insults, so lets it slide, “Do you think he’d be interested in staying and helping some of the Juniors? He probably lacks the authority,” The self-confidence, Victor corrects silently, “To help with the Seniors, but we could definitely make use of him. Ask him, will you?”

Victor knows at least part of the offer is designed to sweeten the deal to keep him here – he still hasn’t agreed to stay until September. But still, it’s quite the offer for Yuuri.

“I will. Tonight.”

“See you on Monday, Vitya. Get some rest.” He nods and starts to head out. But Yuuri’s not sitting on the bench like he usually is in the afternoons.

“Yuuri went home a while ago,” Yuri tells him, “He was looking a little sick and tired. Is he okay?” Victor frowns, he hadn’t noticed. It’s been a long week, after a long month.

“Also Lilia isn’t in next week,” Yuri adds with no small amount of glee in his voice. They share conspiratorial grins. No Lilia means fewer brutal training sessions for Yuri, fewer brutal words for Victor. This calls for celebration tonight, he decides, and stops for some nice wine on the way home. He should spoil Yuuri, who has been so perfect, even when Victor’s been a less than desirable partner. He’s not sure he’s cut out for coaching, really. He misses the carefree winter days, misses Yuuri.

 

“A gift,” He says, presenting the bottle to Yuuri,  “I know I’ve been busy, and I haven’t been helping you settle in here as much as I should have.” Understatement of the year, “I hope you haven’t been too bored.”

Yuuri shakes his head. The sweetheart, Victor thinks fondly. He’s been alone with Makkachin in the morning, and spends each afternoon not understanding anything that goes on around him.

“Yuuri, I know you’re lying,” He says with a smile. It turns self-deprecating, “Ah, who am I kidding? I guess, I just mean ‘thank you’,” He tries to imbue as much of his endless gratitude into those words. He’s not very good at expressing his feelings, “For being so patient, even though you’ve been so bored,”

Yuuri looks shocked. It makes Victor sad. Has it really been so long since he’d spoken like this to Yuri? He has to treasure him more often, from now on, he decides.

He starts to tell him about Yakov’s offer. If Yuuri _is_ interested, it would earn him some money, but more importantly, given him an excellent step into the skating world post-competition. It’s a high-powered club, after all. And he’s certainly demonstrated an aptitude for coaching. They could stay together here until September. Maybe he’s not interested, Victor thinks, looking at Yuuri’s face grow paler. Or maybe he really is sick?

“I got a job, actually,” Yuuri says, interrupting him, with a hoarse voice. Victor’s shocked, surprised yet again. Yuuri’s so enterprising, so wonderfully driven. But where?

“In New Zealand,” Yuuri answers and slams his eyes shut, squeezed tight. He’s frightened, Victor notes abstractly. Does he think Victor is going to hurt him?

New Zealand. Yuuri’s voice echoes in his mind.

Yuuri manages to open his eyes. Victor can’t think of anything to say. Can’t think of anything. There’s something wrong in his stomach. Maybe he’s getting sick too.

“In New Zealand,” He repeats, slowly. Yuuri nods and explains. There are two Juniors in New Zealand. He’s taken the job. There’s no time to tell him about the Juniors in Russia. Yakov was too late. He leaves in 10 days. Victor feels sick.

 

It’s not until after they’ve done the dishes that Victor’s able to identify the feeling in his gut. He’s hurt. He’s not angry, not really. He’s hurt; it’s a basic, selfish, childish feeling. His lover kept a secret from him.

Yuuri still hasn’t said anything, doesn’t look like he can. This is supposed to be an adult relationship, Victor thinks. Should they tell each other these sort of things? Or is that childish? To want to know, to want your partner with you. He’s always been clingy.

“I am trying to figure out if I am selfish for wishing you would have talked to me about this before you made your decision,” He finally admits. Yuuri jumps. Victor doesn’t know what else to say. He’s oddly embarrassed. He remembers telling Yuri how wonderful Yuuri was, how surprisingly well he’d settled in. He remembers how eager he’d been tonight,

“I am sorry for not noticing how upset you were here,” He’s proud of how steady his voice is, until Yuuri has the gall to say he wasn’t upset. Then he snaps, “Yuuri, with all due respect, no-one who is happy takes a job offer in _New Zealand_. Do not lie to me anymore.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Yuuri asks, voice trembling. He’s crying. It breaks Victor’s heart. Yuuri thinks Victor is going to end it? He’s not the one going to New Zealand.

“No. No, Yuuri. I’m just disappointed.” In myself, he doesn’t add.

 

They don’t talk for days. Yuuri looks like he’ll burst into tears every time Victor walks into the room. It makes him feel like a monster. But repression never works. It didn’t work for his love of men, it didn’t work for dealing with his parents’ death, it doesn’t work now. He tries anyway.

It’s Yuuri who snaps first.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” He suddenly states, while they’re doing dishes. It feels like everything happens while they’re washing dishes. Yuuri’s ranting, waving the dishcloth around, getting redder in the face, “It’s not like I can quit the job now.”

“I’m not asking for that,” He tries to keep his voice calm.

“Whatever Victor, don’t pretend you’re not angry.”

“Of course I’m angry.”

“Oh so you are? I thought you said you weren’t asking for anything.” That doesn’t even make sense, and besides,

“That’s not what I said.”

“You never say anything!”

“I think, Yuuri, that the problem here is that _you_ didn’t tell _me_ you were going to _New Zealand_.”

“I’m _sorry_ for not telling you, but honestly, Victor, how was I supposed to know you’d even notice I was gone? You have barely looked at me in three months! How was I supposed to know you’d care about me getting a job, or what my future would look like, or anything at all! How was I supposed to know you cared about me!”

Yuuri only stops yelling when he’s interrupted by a loud crash at their feet. Victor stares at his trembling hands with betrayal. He must have dropped the plate.

Yuuri apologizes, but there’s nothing for him to apologize for. He didn’t drop the plate. He didn’t drop the ball and drive his love to the other side of the world.

 

Victor spends his free time learning about New Zealand. It’ll be winter there, the seasons are swapped around. He buys Yuuri another scarf. This one is from his favourite market stall. He’ll need to keep warm.

 

He’s distracted at work. Yuuri stops going them for afternoon skates.

“Where’s the pig-man?”

“Don’t call him that, Yura,” Victor rebukes automatically,

“He’s busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Working.”

“Without you?” He wants to smack this boy like a fly.

“Yes, without me. Obviously.”

“You made him angry.” Victor doesn’t reply.

“You’re an idiot,” Yuri concludes.

 

He finds Yakov.

“Thank you for your kind offer, but Yuuri is not interested.” Yakov looks surprised,

“He’s not interested in coaching?”

“He’s not interested in coaching _here_. He has been offered a job in New Zealand, which he has accepted.”

“Vitya,” Yakov’s expression grows troubled, “What have you done?”

Victor slams the door on the way out.

 

When Yuri hears he yells at Victor for nearly five minutes, at top volume. Everyone in the gym hears him calling Victor every name under the sun, in his colourful and idiosyncratic style. ‘An incompetent dick who manages to fuck up everything’ is the kinder epithets he’s given. Yuuri looks up, startled, at the noise. Victor’s relieved he can’t understand anything. It’s already embarrassing enough.

 

The day of Yuuri’s departure grows closer, quickly, as if time has sped up. It’s cruel, that the four months during which Victor had felt run into the ground could go so slowly, and yet the 10 days before Yuuri leaves could pass in the blink of an eye.

He wants to fall to his knees, beg for Yuuri to stay. He knows he doesn’t have that right, and that it wouldn’t work anyway, even if he did try. Yuuri is a stubborn man. It’s a necessary personality trait to succeed in competitive environments. He’s complimented it before, but now he resents it. He doesn’t know what to say at all. He wants to rant and rail, scream at him, but he has no right to that either. They’re left with only silence. It’s lonely.

 

Finally, the day arrives. Yuuri’s suitcase sits at the door.

“Did you put a copy of your flights on the fridge?” He asks. Yuuri shakes his head,

“I emailed it to you.” So he did. Yuuri pulls out his phone.

“I’d better get my Uber.”

“I’ll drive you. I borrowed a car,” Victor explains. Yuuri tries to tell him that he doesn’t have to. But he wants to. He picks up Yuuri’s suitcase. He needs to. Puts the suitcase down again, “May I kiss you goodbye?” Yuuri looks shocked, “It’s just that we won’t be able to at the airport, of course. If you don’t want to, of course, that’s fine.”

But Yuuri’s nodding.

It’s a sad kiss. It’s the first for 10 days. The first since the peck on the cheek Victor had given Yuuri when he’d walked in, careful to hide the bottle of wine, to keep a little surprise. It seems so silly now.

 

They drive mostly in silence. Yuuri looks out of the window. Victor can see his face reflected.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says as they turn onto the highway.

“Why Yuuri?”

Thinks, why are you apologizing now? And for what: for leaving me, for not telling me, for telling me I act like I don’t care about you when you’re all I think of, for being so good to Makkachin that you’ve become his favourite human?

He’s being bitter, and he’s old enough to know that won’t help. Forces a smile to his face, forces himself to think of the bright side. He tries to cheer Yuuri up. It doesn’t seem to work though. Yuuri’s eyes stay wet, his lips stay pressed together. He doesn’t cheer up until right before he goes through security, and even then it’s a sad attempt after a sad joke.

 

Victor watches Yuuri go through the security. He doesn’t move until long after he can no longer see him. It’s not a choice; he’s paralysed. His feet are rooted to the dirty floor of the airport. His heart hurts. It’s not the sharp dagger puncture of heartbreak. It’s a duller ache, like a heart sprain. It’s a new feeling. It’s a new situation, he reasons; he’s never let anyone go before. He’s never waved goodbye and not been the one getting on the airplane.

Five minutes pass, or an hour, he’s not sure, before he manages to rip his feet from the carpet and head home. The drive home is long, or short – he still has no concept of time. It’s sad. He’s so sad. He took Yuuri to the airport because he couldn’t bear to miss out on another precious two hours with him. But it’s not only that, he admits to himself as he unlocks his front door. He drove Yuuri because he wanted Yuuri to know what exactly – _who_ exactly – he was leaving as he turned away for his plane. It was childish, and cruel, Victor thinks as he makes a cup of tea. But he doesn’t regret it. He’s not sure if he wants Yuuri to regret leaving, or not.

Makkachin whines. He stares at his empty apartment. There are little traces of Yuuri everywhere. Shoes packed away on the rack, a hat by the door, a puzzle on the coffee table. An unwashed set of chopsticks, smudges on the coffee table glass, a forgotten mug on the bookshelf, Victor notices less charitably.

He wants to cry.


	5. Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Four seasons fill the measure of the year;_  
>  _There are four seasons in the mind of men._  
>  \- John Keats

**To: Phichit Chulanont**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**Dear Phichit-kun,**

**New Zealand is very nice. Everything is so green, it’s wonderful. Very picturesque. I can understand why they filmed The Lord of the Rings here.**

**It rains a lot. Most of the time, actually. The locals tell me that the country’s Maori name means ‘land of the long white cloud’. Well, the clouds are mostly grey, and most of the sky. So I guess it makes sense.**

 

**~~To: Victor Nikiforov~~ **

**~~From: Katsuki Yuuri~~ **

**~~Dear Victor~~ **

 

**To: Okukawa Minako**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**Dear Minako-san,**

**How are you?**

**I have news! I’m in New Zealand at the moment. Maybe I’m attempting to rival your title of most countries visited. But not for a competition or anything, I’m actually coaching!**

 

**~~To: Victor Nikiforov~~ **

**~~From: Katsuki Yuuri~~ **

**~~Victor, I~~ **

 

New Zealand is horrible.

That’s a lie and Yuuri knows it. New Zealand is stunning. Everyone is friendly. He has a bit of trouble with the accent to start with. Has to double a double-take when he’s given directions to his apartment, which is the sixth on the street.

On his first day meeting the two Juniors, he explains that he had come from spring, and it’s strange to go back into winter. The father laughs and says something like,

“I hope you didn’t pack your jandals. It’s a bit wet for that.” Yuuri laughs as well, and then furiously searches on his phone for what on Earth a ‘jandal’ might be.

 

The Juniors are decent. They probably won’t ever make the top 20 at the Grand Prix, but they seem like they are in with a shot for podium places at the New Zealand National Championships. At least, that’s the impression Yuuri gets after he asks them to perform their last routines. The boys are the same age, with different strengths and weaknesses. This will be a bit of a challenge, he thinks to himself; I’ll have to try my best.

After they finish their routines, Yuuri’s decided on what he’ll start with. He claps his hands twice and calls them over. They’re both petite, as far as male figure skaters go. Yuuri privately wonders if the smaller of the two will make the height-weight requirements for the jumps. But that’s an issue for another day. They’re only 14, who knows if they even want to pursue figure skating.

He should know. He’ll have to find out.

“Thank you for showing me your routines. I think we have a good foundation to work on,” They nod, “But now, I actually just would like to get to know you a bit better. We’ll be spending hours together every day – I think we should be on friendly terms.”

Celestino had started them off by playing a game. It had felt juvenile as a college student, and would probably feel even more so as 14-year-olds. But these two don’t look nearly as emotionally volatile as Yuri. Maybe all New Zealanders were relaxed? Or polite like the Canadians? Yuuri realizes he has no idea. But he remembers being 14 and desperate for attention. Maybe he’ll just ask some questions.

“Cool,” The slightly taller one says. Kai?

“Can we ask you questions too?” The other – Oliver – pipes up. His voice still hasn’t broken yet. Yuuri smiles,

“Of course,” He steps out onto the ice, “Let’s do some easy drills. Are you brothers?” They laugh, following him for a few rotations around the ice.

“Nah, of course not,” Kai replies. They’re even harder to understand than the adults, “I’m Maori. He’s not. Obviously.”

“Are there many Maori figure skaters?”

“Nope!” He sounds proud.

“Our turn. Does everyone in Japan do figure skating?” It’s Yuuri’s turn to laugh,

“No!”

“We just thought, because you know, there’s always a Japanese person in the top 10.”

“It’s no Russia. But I guess Japan does pretty well,” Yuuri cringes after he says that. Is that too much like gloating? But Kai and Oliver don’t seem to notice.

He learns that they go to the local high school. Kai likes maths, Oliver likes French. They both study drama and dance.

“We got teased a bit at the start,” Oliver explains, “But that settled down after a while.” Kai nods seriously. They want to know Japanese swear words, and whether all Japanese people subsist only on ramen, and whether people actually bow in apology. Yuuri finds their bluntness refreshing. They tell him about the rivalry with Australia, and teach him some New Zealand slang.

He notices that Kai’s footwork is sloppy, while Oliver lacks strength.

They ask about pets. Neither have one but Kai wants a snake, and Oliver wants a rabbit. He says,

“A dog,” and then wonders if he’s allowed to say that. Makkachin is, after all, Victor’s.

He thinks they’re going to ask about Victor, and is strangely relieved when they don’t. The hour draws to a close and he steps off the ice. They’re both breathing hard. He admonishes himself; he shouldn’t expect them to have the stamina of an adult.

“Good work,” He says and is pleased to see them smile in response, “Tomorrow we’ll work on footwork. Kai, your outside needs work. Oliver, you favour your right leg.” He laughs at their shocked faces, and how they clamber like excited puppies asking how he could tell.

 

A good first day, he reflects. Normally he will meet them in both the morning and the afternoon, but for the first week he’s going to leave them with exercises to do in the afternoon. General muscle strengthening stuff. They’ll hate it but it’s important. He’ll check their form tomorrow morning. For now, he’ll let them try on their own first. Ostensibly, this week is for him to ‘settle in’, a courtesy he hadn’t expected. Still, he wants to see how much they’ll do. Then he can start working out how far to push them.

 

Auckland is completely different from any other city he’s ever lived in. There are so many parks, and the buildings are all so short. For a capital city, it doesn’t seem very busy. He's told later that it's not the capital, and that throws him too. 

His apartment is well-located. It’s a short bus-ride to the rink, and within walking distance of a park. He will have to remember to thank Oliver’s father for the recommendation. He goes for a run around the park. He only means to do a quick few loops, but before he’s noticed, an hour has passed. His legs are starting to hurt and his stomach is grumbling. Does a quick cool down and heads back to the apartment.

After he’s showered, and fixed a light lunch, he realizes it’s only midday. How is he going to fill the rest of his day? Next week he’ll meet back with the Juniors at 3:00 for another three hours. But this week, he muses, he’ll explore the city.

 

**~~To: Victor Nikiforov~~ **

**~~From: Katsuki Yuuri~~ **

**~~Dear Victor,~~ **

**~~How are you?~~ **

**~~To: Victor Nikiforov~~ **

**~~From: Katsuki Yuuri~~ **

**~~Dear Victor,~~ **

**~~Coaching is fun.~~ **

**~~To: Victor Nikiforov~~ **

**~~From: Katsuki Yuuri~~ **

**~~Dear Victor,~~ **

**~~Jet lag is horrible.~~ **

 

Over the course of a week he covers most of the major tourist sports: goes up the Sky Tower (thinks guiltily that Tokyo Tower was better), wanders studiously through the Museums and the art gallery, and aimlessly through the harbout. Goes to the zoo and sends Yuri a photo of the meerkats captioned,

<< That’s you. >>

He gets a string of angry emoticons back. Then two minutes later, a text that says,

<< Get Instagram. >>

 So he does. He’s never been a huge social media person, always preferring to use direct messaging apps. But there’s a first time for everything. Yuri follows him almost instantly – is that kid ever apart from his phone? Phichit follows him soon after. And after that he stops watching, because his follower count quickly reaches the thousands.

He flicks through Yuri’s account. It’s full of flowers, surprisingly, and selfies, unsurprisingly. Another photo pops up. It’s a picture of a guinea pig, captioned

<< thinking of you katsuki.yuuri >>

What a little shit, Yuuri thinks to himself, huffing.

The next morning, after only a little deliberation, he takes a photo of the rink and captions it,

<< off to work >>

It’s not a particularly artistic photo, but the lighting and the dark clouds create a nice enough effect. It doesn’t deserve the few hundred likes it gets, but it’s nice to know people are interested in his future.

 

It rains almost every day. Yuuri loves it. He’s always felt most comfortable in the winter, liked the fashion: the tight-knit scarves, the thick coats, hats, shoes with deep soles. Of course, when spring comes around he’s always happy to see it. But he cherishes winter.

The kids at school had called him cold. The students at Detroit too, although he’d chalked that up to cultural differences. It’s funny to compare that to his skating, where he always was complimented on his portrayal of emotion.

On a whim one day he buys an umbrella. It’s bright yellow. It’s far gaudier than his usual style, but it attracts him somehow. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it, but it reminds him of Victor.

**~~To: Victor Nikiforov~~ **

**~~From: Katsuki Yuuri~~ **

**~~Dear Victor,~~ **

**~~I’m not sure how to be a good coach.~~ **

 

**To: Phichit Chulanont**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**Dear Phichit-kun,**

**Training has been going well. The two Juniors are putting in a lot of effort, which is pleasing. I am not sure I am doing a good job coaching them though. I never know what to say. >>**

 

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Phichit Chulanont**

**Yuuri!! Why would you expect to know exactly what to do the first time? Besides, you could always ask Victor for advice, no?**

 

That’s the thing. It’s been three weeks, but he hasn’t emailed Victor once, except for the quick exchange right at his arrival time:

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Did you land safe?**

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**Yes**

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Good xx**

 

Victor hasn’t emailed him either though. Thinking about it gives Yuuri a headache. His special Victor headache that starts in the back of his eyes. It makes him feel nauseated too. He’s busy, after all, and Victor’s probably very busy too – he remembers how busy he’d been before he’d left. He doesn’t want to think about the six drafts in his email. He’s beginning to think they did break up after all.

 

Three weeks in New Zealand become four, Oliver lands his first double-axel, and Victor starts liking all of Yuuri’s Instagram posts. Four weeks becomes six and Kai shows off a hydroplane manoeuvre that Yuuri definitively did not teach him, but cheers for anyway, and Victor starts sending him an email every Monday. Yuuri doesn’t open them. He doesn’t know how to respond. To any of it.

 

Yuuri overhears the boys talking about him in the locker room one afternoon. He stops before the doorway, interested to hear what they’re saying.

“I thought he was dating Victor Nikiforov. I’m going to ask him. He said we could ask him whatever,” Yuuri almost falls over. He’d meant skating-related questions.

“Kai!” Oliver whisper-shouts, alarmed, “You can’t just ask that!”

“Well, why not?” Kai whispers back. They clearly haven’t heard him enter, “It’s not like it’s a big deal.”

“It’s private,” It is private, Yuuri agrees. He’ll need to reward Oliver later.

“They _made out_ on the rink! How can it be private?”

“Don’t you think he would have mentioned it if they were dating?”

“Not if he thinks it’s private,” Kai counters.

“Then either way we shouldn’t bring it up,” Oliver decides, tone final.

“Fine.”

The exchange puts Yuuri in a bad mood, and he only feels a little guilty for putting them through the ringer. By the time it hits 7PM they’re both bright red, and hands almost reach the ground with how much their shoulders are sagging.

“Dude, what’s gotten into him?” He hears Kai whisper behind him as he walks out. He doesn’t wait to hear Oliver’s reply.

 

The next day he gets an email from a Japanese reporter asking some questions for a piece for the sport column. He answers all but the last one:

**You recently made history as an openly gay athlete by unveiling your relationship with coach Victor Nikiforov. Do you have any comments about this?**

 

He doesn’t sleep well that night.

 

It snows all weekend. Snow in Auckland is apparently not all that common, although it seems strange to Yuuri to only see snow in July. He watches it from his window, warms his hands on a mug of ginger and lemongrass tea. He’d bought it on autopilot at the store. It’s Victor’s favourite, he remembers sourly.

 

He takes himself out for a few drinks one evening. He was bored sitting at home, and he had finished his game. He needs to get a new one. Of course, his thoughts turn to Victor. They always do, eventually, no matter how hard he tries to ignore him.

Victor, stupid Victor. Dragged him off to Russia to ignore him, and then had the gall to get upset when Yuuri had the opportunity to set up a future for himself. What did the man think Yuuri was going to do – wait like a house-husband for him for the rest of his life? He was only 24, goddamnit. His hands clench. Such an attention-seeking child. Well, Yuuri’s lived in the shadow of the golden boy Victor Nikiforov for his whole life. It’s about time he did something on his own. And if Victor wants to ignore him for months, and then send some shitty emails, fine.

He opens one at random,

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Dear Yuuri,**

**It seems that the weather in Auckland is terrible – very wet! How are you finding New Zealand?**

**xx Victor**

How dare he ask about here, as if he hasn’t been totally stuck up blinded by his own work, Yuuri thinks furiously. He types out a response without thinking, and hits send. He feels a little victorious, and mostly hollow.

 

Yuuri’s Instagram gets featured and his follower count triples. Yuri sends him a message of only skulls and fire. It just makes him laugh. He decides to roll with it and does a week of OOTD when Guang-Hong dares him. The most popular by far is the one of him holding his umbrella in the rain. Oliver took it for him. It’s the picture the puff piece uses. It’s also the picture one of the gossip rags use when they run a piece claiming “drama in paradise in international sport’s most stylish couple”. He only knows because Phichit sends him a link and approximately 250 question marks. He doesn’t reply.

Another email from Victor arrives. He reads it, and closes it immediately. He’s not interested in giving Victor advice on Yuri’s routine.

 

He throws himself into coaching. If he’s not at the rink directly working with the boys, he’s either working on tweaking their routines, or watching videos to look for areas to improve, or designing new exercises, or reading interviews of great coaches to try to improve his technique. It’s _fun,_ he realizes eventually.

He sees Oliver do a flawless run-through of his short program mid-August. He’s cheering before he knows it. Kai joins in and Oliver flushes bright, looks elated and like he wants to melt into the ice all at once. Two weeks later, Kai turns the double toe loop into a triple. Unlike Oliver, he preens unabashed, bowing to them. It’s lovely to see the boys bloom into the rink after a long winter of hard work.

 

An email from Phichit pops up while he’s transferring the latest videos to his laptop.

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Phichit Chulanont**

**Yuuri – seriously. What’s going on with you and Victor?**

He slams his laptop shut, frustrated. He can’t talk to any of his friends without them bringing Victor up. He’s so over it. He’s tired of the way his stomach flips and twists, a swarm of wasps churning inside of him. It feels like guilt. It’s those emails he hasn’t responded to – those short little notes, always asking him how he is. And the most recent one, unread, sitting faux innocently, with attachments undownloaded. He doesn’t want to read it.

“Um, Katsuki?” Oliver approaches him, hands stuffed self-consciously in his pockets,

“Yes?” Yuuri tries his best to link friendly, and stuff down his remaining feelings of frustrated.

“I was just wondering if you were okay?” He doesn’t’ have to try to look shocked, he _is._ Oliver seems to take his stunned silence as disapproval, because he gulps and hurries on to say, “You’ve just been looking quite tired lately,” Yuuri curses. He thought he’d been hiding it better, “And I know it’s been three months that you’ve been here and you’ve been away from your, um, friends and family this whole time, and I know you’re _24,_ but I think I’d find that difficult no matter how old I was. And, yeah. I just wanted to check, that, you were, okay.”

So this is what it’s like to be comforted by a student, Yuuri thinks to himself.  It’s both pleasant and unpleasant. It’s sweet, nice to be cared for, to know you’ve made enough of an impact to deserve someone’s sincere thoughts. But it’s also shameful.

He smiles, and pats Oliver’s shoulder,

“Thank you. I’m okay, really. I do miss everyone back home, but I’m not unhappy to be here. I really enjoy coaching you and Kai,” who he can spot hiding behind the corner, “So thank you very much for having me. I am pretty tired though, so I will head home now.” Oliver, nods, looks disappointed. But Yuuri would be disappointed in himself for the rest of his life if he had needed to rely on his student.

As he walks out, he hears Kai say,

“Well, he’s a fucking liar.”

It’s true. But he’s still going to need to teach that boy how to whisper.

 

He opens the attachments of Victor’s last email on the bus, and very nearly cries at the video.

The walk home is a blur. He makes it to his apartment door by muscle memory, he’s sure. Makes himself a pot of tea, and does something he only allows himself to do when he truly needs it. He calls his mother.

He doesn’t think about the time difference until she picks up. Vaguely registers that international calling is expensive, but dismisses that thought.

“Hello?”

“Hi Mom,”

“Yuuri! I haven’t heard your voice in a long time. You’ve been so busy.”

“Yeah,”

“What’s the matter?”

“I messed up. I need some advice.”

“Well, my first piece of advice is what you’ve always hated to hear: calm down,” She’s right. He does hate hearing that. But he always needs to hear it,

“Things are never as bad as they seem,” They say in sync.

“How do you and Dad stay together?”

“Is this about Victor? Yuuko and Minako have been saying all sorts of things.”

“Maybe. Yes. Yes,” Yuuri admits. He never admitted openly that he and Victor were together to his parents. It’s funny. He shouted, literally, to the world, but he never sat down with his parents to introduce Victor as his boyfriend.

“Love is what you make of it, Yuuri. But communication, compromise and compassion help. What has happened?”

And Yuuri tells her the whole damn story.

 

He’s crying by the end of it, of course. He always ends up crying. Fat, ugly tears. He’s never been pretty when crying, but thankfully his mother can’t see. It’s just him, alone in this apartment, alone in this country. And well, that just sums it up perfectly. Pathetic.

His mother breathes deep and calm into the phone. They’re both practiced at this. Eventually, he can stop relying on the big, gulping, heaving, breaths and quietens down. Can breathe normally again.

“I don’t know what to do,” He whispers. So pathetic. 24 and calling his mother to help fix his problems. But he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Yuuri,” She says patiently, “What went wrong?” Is she deaf, he wonders. He just told her, “What really went wrong? In a sentence.”

It dawns on him. Slowly.

“We didn’t talk to each other.” Victor didn’t email Yuuri for a month. Yuuri didn’t reply to the ones he did send. They follow each other on Instagram and never comment on images. Yuuri didn’t tell Victor he was thinking of going to New Zealand. Victor didn’t tell him what would be involved in coaching Yuri. Yuuri didn’t tell him he was feeling isolated. Victor didn’t ask him if he was okay.

He wants to blame Victor, and only Victor, but he can’t anymore. Can’t hide from his responsibility. He’s a liar, he’s always been a liar. He faked confidence, and then faked happiness, and then he faked anger. And now’s he’s alone, on the other side of the world from the man who probably never even realized until he was gone how upset he was. He should have _just told_ him.

“So it’s obvious what you need to do, Yuuri.”

Yes, it’s obvious. Yuuri wants to hit himself over the head, or hide away forever; he’s such an imbecile. But he also feels strangely encouraged, filled with adrenaline, motivated to do his best to fix everything.

He thanks his mother, sure he sounds absent-minded and ungrateful, but he’s sure she’ll understand.

He opens up his email, and opens the one with the attachments. It’s short, and to the point, like Victor always is. The words make more sense now that he’s seen the attached videos. He breathes deep, and hits reply. He doesn’t know what to say, so settles for something simple. Thinks to himself, that’s probably what Victor did.

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**Dear Victor,**

**I think we should talk.**

**xx Yuuri**

 

He waits for Victor’s reply.


	6. (Summer)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Four seasons fill the measure of the year;_  
>  _There are four seasons in the mind of men._  
>  \- John Keats

He’s grateful for Makkachin. He hasn’t slept alone in a bed for six months, and is glad that he can at least share with his dog. He sets his alarm to wake up when Yuuri lands. For now, he tries to sleep.

The alarm goes off. He sends the email.

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Did you land safe?**

Yuuri’s reply is terse. He’s probably tired. Victor believes himself for all of three seconds.

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**Yes**

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Good xx**

He doesn’t know what to say. Rubs his hands over his face and groans. What a disaster. Victor falls asleep, holding the phone, waiting for a reply from Yuuri that never comes.

 

He wakes up with his usual alarm and goes to the rink. It’s robotic. His hair is a disaster, his eyes are swollen. Yakov pats his sympathetically on the shoulder. Yuri lets him off relatively easy with a simple,

“You look terrible, old man. Hurry up, I need help with my quand-Lutz. I keep under-rotating.” Victor appreciates the clumsy attempt at distraction. He gets to work.

 

He lasts eight days before he gets spectacularly drunk. Yuuri hasn’t responded to any of his text messages. Dimly, it occurs to him that Yuuri probably has a new, New Zealand phone number and just hasn’t told Victor. He pours more whiskey.

 

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Dearest Yuuri,**

**I miss you. I hope your first week has gone well. Are the Juniors any good? Will you make them champions?**

**Are you going to come back? Or have you fallen in love with New Zealand and decided to stay there?**

**Please promise to come back.**

**Love,**

**Victor**

 

Victor cracks open his eyes. Makkachin is licking his face. Something died in his mouth. He thinks it might be his dignity. He grasps blindly for his phone. It’s 10AM. Huh, he registers, he missed Yuri’s morning session.

There’s a missed call from Yuri, and a series of texts which mostly consist of insults. No, it’s a Saturday. He didn’t miss training after all. Why’s Yuri so furious with him?

He scrolls up, and _oh God,_ drops the phone on his head. Talk about embarrassing.

<< You are quite possibly the most pathetic man I have ever had the misfortune of encountering. >>

Indeed.

His headache gets worse when he sees the email he’d typed up to Yuuri. Thank God he hadn’t sent that, how pathetic. He deletes it and staggers deliberately to the shower. Maybe he can literally drown his sorrows.

He realizes that he has no idea how to deal with an angry and upset Yuuri. He’s seen a determined Yuuri, a playful one, a serene one, and on occasion an anxious one. He’d learnt, slowly and painfully, by making a lot of mistakes until Yuuri had corrected him, how to help with Yuuri’s anxiety. But he’s never seen Yuuri lose.

He realizes that’s probably an arrogant way of seeing it. He’s never seen Yuuri give up, or walk away. Yuuko had said that Yuuri was stubborn. So which way is it going to go, Victor wonders, eyes closed, leaning against the shower wall, directly under the spray. Will he be too stubborn to give up our relationship, or too stubborn to talk to me again?

He thunks his head back into the wall, and stays until the water goes cold.

 

Another week passes, and Yuuri still hasn’t replied to his email. Mila makes the mistake of asking after Yuuri once. She doesn’t ever again. No-one does. His name becomes taboo at the rink. Victor doesn’t know if it’s because of his unwillingness to respond, or because Yakov talked to everyone. How embarrassing if it’s the latter.

 

Victor spends his afternoons reading counselling advice. Starts searching on Google, and then can’t stop. ‘What to do when your partner won’t talk to you’. ‘How to apologize to someone who won’t listen.’ Some of it is helpful. Most isn’t. He does nothing.

 

Without Yuuri around in the evenings, he’s bored. Decides to clean out his apartment. It’s been his for nearly three years, and it’s accumulated a lot of junk. He starts with the wardrobe. Spends a few evenings trying on clothes, makes three piles: yes, ‘we will pretend I never owned this’ and ‘Yuuri would look good in that’. Re-packs the closet with a side for Yuuri and a side for him. Moves on to the cupboards. He makes his way methodically through the rooms. With nobody to distract him, it goes efficiently enough.

Yuri helps him sometimes, in return for Victor’s help with his English homework, he argues. He homework hardly seems to get done.

“You know, if you wanted you could tell me what happened with pig-man,” Yuri says one afternoon.

“Don’t call him that,” Victor chastises, “And since when have you been interested in Yuuri?”

“We’re friends? And oh, I don’t know, since he left for New Zealand out of the blue and you turned from a sunflower to a piece of fucking tumbleweed, Lilia’s words not mine,” Victor scoffs and keeps polishing some silverware. An inheritance. He’s never used it.

“He’s been gone for three weeks, Victor. What happened?”

“I told you. He got a job. Have you gone deaf?” Yuri doesn’t rise to the bait. It makes Victor feel like an asshole, “He got a job coaching some Juniors in New Zealand. He’s been gone for three weeks. He hasn’t contacted me. I made him angry, I guess.”

“You guess?” Yuri repeats incredulously. Victor hums,

“It seems so. So I’m giving him some space.”

“Is that a good idea?” Good question, Victor thinks.

“Well, he’s making it pretty clear he doesn’t want to talk to me. I think maybe he needs some Yuuri-time.”

“Right,” Yuri doesn’t look convinced. Victor shrugs, and that’s the end of the conversation. Except,

“Yuri I can see you texting. At least pretend you’re not blabbing about my personal life to everyone.”

 

Yuri finally lands his quad after another week. The next day, both Yakov and Lilia agree to the choreography. It’s a huge weight off his shoulders. Victor feels like he could float away; realizes with a start how stressed he’d been about impressing Yakov. His days free up immediately. He no longer has to spend hours plotting, or watching videos, or attempting the routine himself, and then watching videos of that. In fact, his work hours halve overnight.

Victor rediscovers his running routes, stretches in the park, walks Makkachin in the evenings. Inevitably he finds himself wishing Yuuri were around. Summer in St Petersburg is beautiful. All the colours of the buildings seem to pop, and the sky is an endless blue. He wonders what Yuuri would think.

The situation with Yuuri is a conundrum. The ‘give him space’ strategy doesn’t appear to be working, Victor knows he’s an intense person. Clingy, over-bearing, attention-seeking, he’s heard it all before. He had thought maybe he’d been too much for Yuuri and that’s why he’d left. Now he’s not so sure.

He curses to himself, makes the young woman doing yoga next to him in the park jump. His head is pounding. He’s probably dehydrated but it feels like his brain is protesting all of this thinking.

 

<< Victor, you should look at this. Try not to ruin your pants. >>

Victor furrows his brow. Honestly, doesn’t Yuri remember that he’s 28? He opens up the link and _oh,_ Yuuri looks _good._ He’s liked all of the photos before he registers what he’s doing. Screenshots the one with Yuuri and the bright yellow umbrella, and makes it his phone background. Yuuri’s wearing the scarf Victor had given him. It gives him hope that the fear that he dare not vocalise hasn’t happened.

 

Yuuri doesn’t follow him back on Instagram. Victor tries, unsuccessfully, not to feel crushed. It takes him about 10 days, and another bottle of vodka to get over the bitter and childish feelings inside of him.

“This is ridiculous,” he tells Makkachin, “It’s been six weeks and Yuuri hasn’t engaged in anything.”

The dog’s tail wags, and Victor sighs. It’s true, it’s not like he’s tried a lot really. It’s not good enough. He remembers how reticent Yuuri had been at the start, how he’d withdraw and stammer if Victor had asked his opinion, how gently Victor had had to lead in everything new. Yuuri’s a man but the beautiful woman who wanted to be swept off her feet that he had skated is real too. Maybe in the dance of their relationship Victor would always have to lead. The thought makes him sad somehow. The demanding, assertive Yuuri was a treasure.

Makkachin barks suddenly, breaking Victor’s musing. The change in mood makes him laugh. Lilia and Mila would probably break his legs if they’d heard his casual assumption that women couldn’t lead. He smirks. They’d probably dance over his shins until they were crushed.

Nevertheless, he feels invigorated,

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Dear Yuuri,**

**How is New Zealand treating you?**

**xx Victor**

Hits send.

“I may as well try, right? There’s no new men in his pictures.” Makkachin doesn’t reply.

 

He sends another, the week after. And another, the week after that. Yuuri doesn’t reply. Until, one day, he replies to the first one. Just that one.

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**Hoq’s Yuro?**

Victor stares at his phone, before throwing it _hard._ The noise startles everyone. He’d be ashamed of the petulant, unnecessary violence – honestly, he’s not Yuri – if he could muster the ability to feel anything other than boiling rage.

He’s never felt anything like this before. His fingers crack as he tightens his fists in his hair. He cracks his neck, rolls his tongue across the back of his teeth. There’s a burning inside of him, like a star about to go supernova. It’s fierce and overwhelming. Yet he feels so cold. All he can hear is his own heavy breathing, nostrils flaring. He’s never been this angry. He’s so rarely ever angry. Irritated and frustrated, yes. But even when Yuuri had said he was going to New Zealand he hadn’t felt like this, like he could easily, without remorse, break anything or anyone that he encounters.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before the feeling fades down into a quiet simmer. Someone’s saying his name, incessantly, over and over.

“What,” He mutters, lifting his head out of his hands. It’s Yakov, who is squatting in front of him.

“What’s the matter, Vitya?” The old man looks concerned, “I’ve never seen you look so angry. I’ve never seen so much emotion in your face, burning,” He gets poetic, Victor had forgotten. He doesn’t want to deal with this right now, and says as much, standing up. He knocks Yakov’s hand from his shoulder and picks up his coat.

“I’m not feeling well. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Yakov doesn’t try to stop him as he walks out. He doesn’t pick up his phone. Doesn’t want to remember all of those godforsaken text messages.

<< Yuuri, did you have a good flight? >>

<< Ah, I’ve just remembered I should email you, your phone won’t work in the airport! >>

<< Are you jetlagged? It always messes me up. >>

<< I miss you. >>

<< I miss you. >>

<< I guess you have a new number, but just in case! >>

<< Are you having fun? What are the kids like? Bet they have posters of you up in their bedrooms! >>

<< Tell me the men in New Zealand are ugly. >>

<< The women too. >>

<< Yuuri are you angry? Why won’t you tell me why? I can’t fix it if you won’t tell me. >>

<< Please >>

<< I can’t read your fucking mind. >>

<< Sorry about how long your phone is going to ring when you get all of these! It’s a habit now, I guess.>>

<<Even though I knew you’re not reading them. >>

<< You look even more gorgeous than ever, Yuuri. The scarf suits you. >>

<< I love the yellow umbrella!!! >>

<< Do you think about me? >>

<< I think about you all the time. >>

 

Victor goes to the gym and does the hardest work-out he’s done in years. Sweats through his shirt, flushes bright red, doesn’t stop until he can’t breathe at all, until he falls on his face doing push-ups. It takes several hours, but he feels better for it. Cleaner, somehow, despite the sweat and the stench. He’s never before exercises out of anger, but clearly there’s something to be said for it.

He takes his time with the cool-down, allows himself to really feel each muscle flex and contract. Usually he just goes through the motions. Not now. Breathes through the aches, visualises the inside of each part of his body as he slowly, slowly stretches out. He goes just as slowly in the shower. Let’s his scalp be tickled as he shampoos his hair, tries to count the goose-bumps on his arms as the water cools, traces a water droplet down his back by sensation only.

He walks back to his apartment slowly too, a bit gingerly up the stairs. Yuuri had been drunk when he sent that email, he’s sure of it. However, Victor’s old enough to know that sometimes what you say when you’re drunk is the most honest you can be.

So Yuuri’s angry. That’s now been made abundantly clear.

He unlocks the door. And he’s jealous of Yura? That’s preposterous. Yuri’s 16, and hadn’t Victor made it clear how much he cared for Yuuri? It’s time like these that he wished he had a parent to call. The closest he has is Yakov, who thinks he’s a selfish bastard.

 

“The man only ever thinks of himself,” Yakvo had said when asked about Victor leaving to coach Yuuri. Victor hadn’t thought much of it at the time, after all, it hadn’t been the first time Yakov had said something like that about him. But maybe it should have been more of a warning.

 

He orders take-out from what had been his favourite Japanese before he’d met Yuuri. They’d had it several times in the months they’d lived here together. Yet, for some reason, Victor couldn’t remember if Yuuri liked it. Maybe Victor didn’t know Yuuri at all.

He loses his appetite at the thought. Looks at the calendar and counts the days. There’s still another five weeks until Victor is finished with Yuri, another month after that until the New Zealand Championships.

 

**~~To: Katsuki Yuuri~~ **

**~~From: Victor Nikiforov~~ **

**~~Yuuri, have we broken up and you just haven’t told me~~ **

Victor lies in bed and wonders if he’ll ever be brave enough to ask. He doesn’t think so, but then again, he didn’t think he’d be brave enough to think about it either.

 

He starts choreographing for some others around the rink. Mila in particular is fun to work with; she’s unusually powerful for a female skater. He thinks she might be able to perform Yuri’s routine better than he does. Yuri hits him over the head for that comment, but it's worth it to see her confidence bloom, like the flowers outside.

 

There are so many places he’d wanted to take Yuuri, Victor notes, regretfully, walking through the city. So many other parts of Russia too. And it is beautiful here in the summer, not humid like it got in Japan. There are festivals, and Georgi’s party is next week. That has always been one of the highlights of Victor’s calendar. He’d wanted to show off Yuuri to everyone. Now it seems like he’ll be going alone, like every other year.

 

He overhears Georgi talking to Alexei at the party. He sees Alexei in the kitchen and turns right around to leave - they’ve never got along well – when he hears his name.

“Yeah, he’s been a bit scary lately.”

“His partner left him, you know.”

“What?”

“Yes, I read it in the papers.” That’s news to Victor. He never reads anything written about him unless it’s official ISU material. Alexei sounds smug. Georgi hasn’t said anything.

“But, I mean, what did he expect?”

Victor doesn’t want to hear this. He walks away. He’s not interested in Alexei Samoylov’s opinion of why he deserved his heartbreak. The last thing he’d told Victor he’d deserved was a punch to the face, years ago. The logic wasn’t clear then, and Victor’s got no reason to believe it could be clear now.

 

Alexei’s words stay with him. They spin around his mind, like jumps around the rink. What did he expect?

From what? He’d hoped that Yuuri would win, but he hadn’t _expected_ it. He’d hoped Yuuri would reciprocate his feelings. He’d expected it too, after a while. Was that so bad, he frowns. Isn’t that just being able to read people? He’d expected Yuuri to open up to him, and he had. Yuuri was like the blue sky of winter, a beautiful surprise.

He’d hoped Yuuri would still want him even after he’d won, and he had no more use for Victor. He hadn’t dated think of expecting that. Why would you want a man – an annoying, clingy man who sang off-key in the shower, got grumpy when hungry, smelled after a run – if you’d previously had a God?

He’d hoped Yuuri would come with him to Russia. He hadn’t expected to be so busy. He hadn’t expected Yuuri to be so patient, and understanding, and forgiving.

And suddenly, Victor understands. It’s a cold rain thought, a sudden and unpredicted shower, he’s drenched and shivering and wants to kick himself.

He’d expected Yuuri to tell the truth.

There’s a darker thought, in the back of his mind. A rumbling thunder cloud. It makes his stomach twist to even think about. Maybe he’d expected Yuuri to accept whatever Victor gave him?

“You’re a selfish man, Victor,” he says to himself. Maybe he did deserve this after all.

 

Victor looks through the pictures on his phone, lost in memories.

Yuuri hiding his face in his hands. “Yuuri, show me the ninjas!” Yuuri smiling shyly beside some flowers. “Yuuri, let’s go walk in the park!” Yuuri reading a menu, forehead creased in concentration. “Yuuri, let’s try this restaurant – it used to be so good!” Yuuri walking Makkachin. “Yuuri, let’s walk Makkachin after breakfast!”

He hadn’t realized that he so rarely let Yuuri decide what they were going to do. He hadn’t realized Yuuri might not tell him if he were unhappy.

He stares at the text messages he’d deliberately sent to a number that couldn’t be read. Maybe Yuuri wasn’t the only one who wasn’t honest.

A stupid man, as well as a selfish one, then, he thinks bitterly. He’s struck by the urge to text Yuri, which honestly makes no sense. What would the 16-year-old care? What advice would he be able to give? He texts him anyway.

<< I am a stupid and selfish man. >>

He stares at his phone. How melodramatic. How pathetic. 28 and his closest friend is a 16-year-old monster-child.

<< Yeah, what’s new? Is this about piggy? >>

<< Don’t call him that. >>

<< Whatever. What did you do  now? >>

<< Nothing. >>

<< So what’s the problem? >>

<< I’m the problem, Yura. >>

<< Dude. >>

<< WTF >>

<< I can’t belive you just said that seriously. >>

<< omg I told Yakov. Jsyk he said “typical” >>

<< Ok ok so *you’re* the problem. What are you going to do about it? >>

And that is the question, isn’t it.

Victor has never been a particularly verbose person. As a child he often responded monosyllabically to questions, to the great frustration of his father, who had once said,

“Victor, if someone cut out your tongue it would hardly make any difference to conversation with you.”

But skating had been different – it was so easy to express himself on the ice. Yuuri probably doesn’t know how similar we are in that sense, he thinks. In fact, he’s not sure there’s anyone left who knows that except Yakov. He’s spent a long time crafting his bubbly persona. Years of interviews had ensured that. He can remember the exact moment when it had clicked that he didn’t have to put any of _himself_ into his answers; that he could just open his mouth and let _anything_ come out. That it didn't have to be exhausting to be ‘on’. He was 17 and another skater had embarrassed him in front of a pretty girl. He’d thought about crying and running away, but instead found himself just joking in response. By the end of the evening he’d charmed every girl in the room. It was so _simple._

He used to tell stories to his mother, though. It wasn’t like he was a mute or surly child. He just didn’t see the point of talking if it wasn’t something he was interested in. Talking just to fill the silence wasn’t interesting. His mother called him direct. He knew it seems snobbish to others though, and so the excitable vapidity became a habit. Most people never wanted anything else, and it had the added bonus of irritating Yakov.

But Yuuri didn’t want it. Yuuri had never wanted it, had always just wanted Victor, wanted ‘just-Victor’. The request had stumped him. Victor was so rarely alone. He was Victor the figure skating maestro, or Victor the student, or Victor the mentor, or Victor the idol, or asleep.

They only time Victor is ever just Victor is in the early hours of the morning, the time when nothing seems real, and the city hums quieten. When your shadow can barely be seen, and you’re only awake if you can’t sleep. Sometimes, if it wasn’t competitive season, he used to go skating at this time. Just him and the ice – he’d never turn on many lights. No fancy jumps or step routines. Nothing demanding. No Yakov. No pressure to practice. No expectations for himself. It’s not reality at that time of night. He barely felt real sometimes, imagined himself a ghost on the ice. He hadn’t done that in a few years, not since his parents had died. He hadn’t realized it had been so long. Maybe he should try again.

 

It’s empty. As it should be. No serious competitor – and they were all serious competitors here – would put their body at risk by additional, unsupervised practices. The rink is his.

He skates. Just skates. Breathes deep. Doesn’t think. Yuuri always had a routine, a mindfulness technique to get in the zone. Victor has never understood it. The ice is flat and clean, reflects everything. The ice is a blank slate. Just be like the ice, it’s easy. Breathe deep and empty your mind, and skate.

He works his way through old routines, downgrading the jumps. Finds himself skating Yuuri’s winning free skate. Everything always comes back to Yuuri. Yuuri had surprised him, had been the _only_ thing that had surprised him in so long. Yuuri had made him surprise himself, Yuuri who had moved to New Zealand to escape, or to get even, or to grow. He’s not sure. How naïve to think that you could grow to know a person in a year. How naïve to forget that people are like seasons, with changing moods, with different facets, some expressed, others kept hidden.

Yuuri is in winter right now, Victor remembers. Yuuri is a winter snow. Beautiful on its own, but hiding the flowers buried underneath. How arrogant to think that just because he’d been shown the flowers once before that he could expect to see them always. He forgot he needed to melt the snow, or brush it to the side.

He knows what he needs to do now. It may be stupid, but he’s already shown himself to be a stupid man. Maybe it’s self-indulgent, but he hopes Yuuri will understand. It’s their common language after all.

 

It takes him two weeks to choreograph and memorise. He uses Yuuri’s music because, well, why not. It Yuuri’s piece was his love story to the ice and to Victor, Victor would give him one back. It’s not perfect – it’s a little rushed, a little imbalanced. Unlike Yuri’s, he’s not going to spend months on it. When he finally gets a take he’s satisfied with, he uploads it – and his attempt at Yuuri’s free skate routine, in which he has to touch out of the quad flip to YouTube.

 

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Dearest Yuuri,**

**I hope you are well, and happy.**

**Please watch these, if you have a moment. I would appreciate hearing your thoughts. I am not sure how to express how I feel.**

**Much love, always,**

**Victor**

 

Yuuri doesn’t reply. The views add up by the thousands.

A news reporter asks him for a comment. Victor tells the truth,

“It’s pretty obvious.”

ISU runs a piece praising his restraint in his tight spins, admiring his emotional performance, hypothesizing on whether this is an announcement of a return to competition. Yuuri still doesn’t reply.

Eventually Yakov, Yuri, Georgi, Mila, everyone stops looking at him with pity. He gets messages from Yuuko, Guang-Hong, Phichit, even Christoffe, ranging from the accustatory, to the mocking, to the congratulatory. Yuuri still doesn’t reply.

 

Then finally, one day, Victor hears a ping. Yuri hears it too, and Yakov. Everyone at the rink hears it for the first time in weeks. Yuuri’s ping.

Victor opens his phone, reads the email.

He sends a reply and tries to ignore how his hands are shaking,

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Is this the kind of ‘talking’ that is best done as actual talking? I can call you now if you need me.**

Yuuri doesn’t make him wait. He’s thankful. He’s barely breathing, he might not survive if he’d had to wait longer than a few seconds.

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**I think I’d actually prefer to type, if that’s okay. It’s easier for me if I can have time to think about my words.**

 

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Of course.**

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**Can you maybe not respond? I mean, just let me know you’ve read it, but – do you understand? I’m worried I might not get it all out if I’m interrupted.**

 

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**I can do that.**

 

“Yakov, Yura – I’m sorry. I’ve got to – ” He cuts himself off, embarrassed and unsure. It’s _Yuuri,_ so obviously it’s important. But he’s got no idea what’s happening. Yakov waves him off, Yuri tells him to

“Fuck off,” which Victor chooses to interrupt as ‘Good luck, my precious coach; I wish you all the best.’

 

The reply comes when he’s on the metro.

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**You always meet me where I am. Thank you.**

 

Victor soon realizes that the replies will take a while to arrive. It seems like Yuuri’s concentrating hard on weighing up all of his words. So Victor curls up on the couch, cup of tea in hand, pets Makkachin and waits for each new alert.

“It’s Yuuri, Makkachin,” He says. The dog’s ears perk up at Yuuri’s name. He smiles sadly. He still doesn’t know what to expect from this. Yuuri’s talking about the two boys he’s coaching. Victor doesn’t know if Yuuri’s about to end things or not, but either way, it seems that Yuuri has finally become frustrated by the impasse. A resolution will be good, either way.

Ah, who is he kidding, he thinks heavily. He’d rather pretend to have Yuuri than definitely not have him. He’s always been a coward. Still, he reads everything Yuuri has to say. He’s learnt to treasure the words.


	7. Spring (Autumn)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Four seasons fill the measure of the year;_  
>  _There are four seasons in the mind of men._  
>  \- John Keats

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**Dear Victor,**

**I have been busy. I never realized how much work there is involved in coaching. Celestino and you both made it look so easy: you always knew what I needed to work on, and how I should work on it, and when, and how to explain it so I understood.**

**I didn’t know any of those things. I would watch Kai and Oliver and think to myself, ‘that’s a sloppy landing’ or ‘that arm doesn’t feel right’. But actually figuring out the next steps, or even just what exactly was wrong – it took me longer to learn than I thought.**

**But I did learn! They’ve both improved so much, and I really think I had something to do with it.**

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**I’m proud, of myself. I did it. I came out here, on my own to something I’d never done before, and I think I’ve done a good job. Just me. Just Katsuki Yuuri.**

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**It’s not like my figure skating, I guess is what I’m trying to say. Where I know everyone always wondered if it was really just you. And I know you always tell me that I could have done it on my own, that I had the skill and the ability but I _couldn’t_ have done it without you. I skated because of you, I went competitive because of you, I won with your choreography and your coaching. I hate when you don’t believe me. **

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**I ran away. I don’t even know myself if it was out of fear, or spite. I want to think that I left because it was something I wanted for _me._ That it was a good career move, that it was because I was genuinely interested in the job. But I’m not sure that’s all of it. I think part of me did it to hurt you, and I’m so, so sorry.**

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Dearest Yuuri,**

**I know you told me not to respond, and here I am, responding, disrespecting your wishes once again. But you haven’t sent a new email in thirty minutes, so I wonder – are you now waiting for a reply from me? If not, you can close this – don’t read any more until you’re ready. Or, if you’ve fallen asleep, I look forward to more emails from you tomorrow. But Yuuri, I kept you waiting for me for too long before; I hate the idea of you sitting alone, suffering my silence again.**

**If you ran away, it was no doubt in part because I treated you poorly. I have been a selfish and inconsiderate partner, I can see that now. In this sense, I guess you could say that I ran away before you did. And I am so sorry, Yuuri. Please, if nothing else, please believe me that I am sorry.**

**Love,**

**Victor**

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**Victor, you didn’t do it on purpose though.**

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Of course not. But is neglect truly any worse than spite? I am not sure.**

**Thank you for your apology Yuuri. I do not blame you. It _was_ a good idea for your career, and you seem to be genuinely enjoying the job. And if you are curious, and somehow missed the message of my video, you did succeed in hurting me. In a way, I thank you for this as well. We learn best through pain, Russians. This is why we are so good at ballet, and can drink so much vodka. **

**I am not sure you still wish to maintain our relationship – and I do not blame you if you don’t – but you have made me a better person, I believe.**

**(Really Yuuri, I know I am blunt and tactless, but this is not an attempt to pressure you in your decision at all)**

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**Dear Victor,**

**Please don’t leave me. I don’t want you to. It’s selfish, I’m a selfish man. I need you, I need your attention. I guess I expected you to keep reaching out. And I didn’t realize that some of that burden lay on me. I didn’t know how to tell you I was lonely, and unhappy. I guess people have either known – like my family, or Yuuko – or I didn’t think they’d care. I’ve never had anyone I wanted to hold on to before, I’ve told you that. I guess I’ve also never learnt how to hold on to someone.**

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Dear Yuuri,**

**I don’t want to leave you either! I cannot express in English how pleased, and relieved, I am to hear I still have a partner. I have not been sure for several months, but have been too cowardly to ask.**

**Yuri’s competition is in 10 days. Please don’t think I’m changing the subject. I know you’re in New Zealand for at least a month after that. May I come visit you?**

**I won’t, if you don’t want me to. I understand if you would prefer me to stay away. I have no intention of taking over your coaching, or distracting you from anything; I have just missed you terribly. I honestly just want to be with you again. But I am happy to wait a month longer for it.**

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Ah, that was too forward, wasn’t it? I’m sorry Yuuri.**

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**No, I’d like that.**

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Great! I want to see this yellow umbrella in person. It’s adorable. So is the person holding it, of course.**

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**I gave it to Oliver, he hasn’t returned it.**

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**:( :( :(**

 

They email several times a day after that. Yuuri knows Victor would rather call, but Victor never once brings it up. Sometimes the emails are long, sometimes short, but mostly they’re frequent. Yuuri feels better for it. Like maybe the snow in his mind has melted. He must act differently too, because Kai and Oliver ask what happened. He’s about to respond with a denial, before thinking that maybe being more open should be something he works on in all parts of his life.

“Yes, I do feel better. I was a bit down, but I had a good talk with Victor,” He says. Oliver’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. Kai, on the other hand, has no such tact.

“So you are dating then! I knew it! Didn’t I tell you Oliver? That newspaper was saying that you’d broken up, and there was this theory going around that you’d never been dating in the first place – that it was all for attention. But I knew the truth!”

Yuuri laughs, “I’m not sure I’m a good enough actor to pretend to fall in love with someone.”

“You’re not a good actor at all,” Oliver teases.

 

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Dear Yuuri,**

**Yurio has been teasing me constantly. Apparently my ‘Yuuri-face’ is back. When I asked him what that meant, he told me that I look like a virginal idiot who’s just seen a naked man for the first time and now can’t stop imaging increasingly ludicrous situations in which a date might go past first base and end in marriage. This is, of course, not exactly what he said – you know Yuri. It really was a masterful oratory piece. I fear that Yuri has missed his true calling, and he should in fact be a novelist or a speech-writer.**

**Tell me about your day – how is Kai’s ankle? Has Oliver gotten over his fear of the Lutz yet? (I know I’ve asked every day this week but really, it’s a beautiful jump!) Are you sleeping better?**

**Makkachin misses you.**

**Counting down the days,**

**Love,**

**V**

 

Yuri wins the Russian Championship, of course. He’s miles ahead of the rest of the competition. Really, he’s only participating as a confidence booster. He complains, saying it’s a waste of time. But Yakov refuses to budge,

“When you win a Grand Prix then you can start having any sort of choice.” Yuri looks mutinous, but Victor laughs. It won’t be too long now, he predicts. Maybe the year after next, once Yuri gets slightly stronger and has more power to push off the ice for some more difficult jumps and combinations.

 

“So, you’re off then?” Yuri asks, after the ceremony when they’re out for dinner to celebrate.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Good riddance,” Yuri replies. But Victor’s learnt to read between the lines by now. He speaks fluent Yuri.

“Yeah yeah, you’ve got to keep training hard for the qualifiers. But you don’t need me for that.”

“You won’t be back by November, Vitya?” Victor looks at Yakov and shrugs in response. He really doesn’t know. He doesn’t care either. He’ll decide with Yuuri.

 

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**Dear Victor,**

**Are you at the airport? I can’t wait to show you the wildflowers. You’ll love them – they’re beautiful.**

**Have a safe flight!**

**Love,**

**Yuuri**

**To: Katsuki Yuuri**

**From: Victor Nikiforov**

**Dear Yuuri,**

**I’m boarding soon. I’ll see you soon. I’m looking forward to seeing everywhere you’ve been talking about. Mostly I’m looking forward to seeing you.**

**Love,**

**V**

**To: Victor Nikiforov**

**From: Katsuki Yuuri**

**Dear Victor,**

**You must be on the plane by now! I hope it goes well, and you get some decent food to eat. I’m so excited to see you. I hope you packed an umbrella too. It still rains a lot here.**

**Love,**

**Yuuri**


End file.
